Steele the Melody Lingers On
by kgmohror
Summary: When the owners of a Big Band-themed night club ask Remington Steele Investigations to find out who is trying to put them out of business, the detectives discover that - while the way men and women relate to each other might change with the generations - the fundamental things apply as time goes by. Written in honor of the 30th anniversary of the debut of the show.
1. Chapter 1

Laura Holt sat in her office, tapping a pencil on her desktop and trying to ignore the persistent growling in her stomach as she weighed the pros and cons of asking Mr. Steele to lunch. As an independent woman of the 1980s, Laura had no qualms about taking the initiative with a man … ordinarily. But she found that a lot of things she would ordinarily do didn't apply to her behavior around the man who went by the name Remington Steele.

She pursed her lips and frowned. The man was HER creation, after all. He depended as much on her to maintain the charade as she did on him to play his part. So how did he keep her feeling so far off balance, so out of control, so … ambivalent?

Truth be told, she wasn't sure how he would react to being asked out by her. Certainly he was no male chauvinist; he had never treated her with anything less than respect, and was cheerfully willing to admit that she was infinitely more competent at detective work — though she had to admit he'd come a long way in that regard. Still, there was something quaintly Old School about how he responded to her as a woman. His manners were deferential, almost courtly. Opening doors for her. Complimenting her appearance. Always picking up the tab (never the mind the fact that whatever money he spent on her was hers in the first place). Helping her on with her jacket. And always, _always_ giving her credit where credit was due; from the first moment he'd assumed the identity of Remington Steele, he had gone out of his way to offer public acknowledgement to the "woman behind the man."

Yet despite an almost constant barrage of innuendo, he had often been slightly reticent, almost tentative, in making physical advances. Well, there was that time in Acapulco when he grabbed and kissed her fiercely, venting his frustration over her hot-and-cold behavior. Frankly, she couldn't really blame him for his impatience — and the hint of simmering passion revealed in that embrace was (she blushed to admit) incredibly arousing. But she had cut him off quickly, and he hadn't repeated such a forceful demonstration of his ardor. No, it was back to searing glances, slow dances, champagne toasts and tender words. Oh, and deep, lingering kisses that turned her knees to jello. Not that any of those things were bad …

Laura felt the familiar warmth that blossomed in her whenever she ruminated on those almost-intimate moments between them. She knew he relished her company as much as she did his; even apart from their strong physical attraction, both found great pleasure in stimulating conversation, working side by side on cases, even the frequent verbal sparring that got their blood pumping and juices flowing. Perhaps _especially_ the verbal sparring. They would thoroughly enjoy lunch together, she was sure. But by making the overture, was she proving his frequent assertion that she wanted to control their relationship?

Another embarrassing noise emanated from her entrails and she threw down her pencil in disgust. "Oh, my God," she muttered out loud. "It's only lunch, not a marriage proposal!"

"Forming an unnatural attachment to your leftover take-out, Laura?"

Her head snapped up to see Steele leaning in her doorway, a playful grin on his impossibly handsome face.

"It just so happens, I've had several very satisfying relationships with sushi and cold Thai noodles. Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, Mr. Steele." She hoped her banter effectively concealed the flush she suddenly felt. Damn that smile!

"Different strokes, Miss Holt," he shrugged. "Shame you already have plans for a téte-a-téte with a Tupperware container, though. I was about to ask you out to lunch."

"I could be persuaded to change my plans," she answered quickly, rising from her chair and reaching under the desk for her purse. "To be honest, I don't things were going to work out anyway. Kind of a cold fish."

She was gratified by his chuckle as she joined him in the doorway, feeling his arm slip naturally around her waist.

"What are you in the mood for, Laura? The lunch counter at Morton's, or …" — he gently pulled her closer against him — "… that dark corner booth at Finelli's?" Staring down into her eyes, he let out a long, slow breath. "Or maybe we should just order in." He lowered his face toward hers and she parted her lips, anticipating the kiss …

"Boss! Miss Holt!" Laura and Steele lurched apart at the sound of Mildred's voice.

"What is it, Mildred?" Laura asked, perhaps a touch more irritably than she intended.

"Clients!" the receptionist whispered excitedly. "They just came in. They're in the waiting room!"

Laura frowned. "Well, tell them to make an appointment. We don't accept walk-ins like some cut-rate beauty salon."

"You don't understand. It's Maurice Whiteman! And Helen Mayfair!"

Steele's face brightened in recognition. "No! The King of Sambas and the Golden-Throated Songbird of the South Jersey Shore?"

"That's them!" Mildred chirped. "Isn't it thrilling?"

Laura hated it when she didn't know what people were talking about. Made her feel left out and a little dumb. Steele's constant film references usually had that effect — and now Mildred was starting it, too? "Would one of you care to explain who these people are?" she demanded.

"Whiteman and Mayfair, perhaps the most popular of the bandleader-girl singer duos of the Big Band era," Steele schooled her. "They provided tuneful ambience in the background of any number of 40s-era films." He glanced at Mildred's animated expression. "Of course, I'm not the connoisseur of that musical genre that I suspect Mildred is."

"Oh, I was crazy about the Whiteman Melodiers — that was Maurice Whiteman's orchestra," Mildred gushed. "He was SO dashing! And Helen Mayfair was just such an elegant, sophisticated woman. I wanted to be just like her when I was 18."

"Okay, now we've established who they are, set up an appointment for them," Laura said.

Mildred's face fell. "Oh, I couldn't do that, Miss Holt. I mean, they're _celebrities_. And Miss Mayfair — er, Mrs. Whiteman — looks _so_ upset. Can't you just squeeze them in? Your next appointment isn't until 3:00."

"It _would_ seem good business to solicit the good will of the glitterati, Miss Holt," Steele agreed. He gave Laura a look that she understood: He was inclined to humor their motherly receptionist. Laura sighed. Steele's generous nature and compassion were two of his best (and occasionally most vexing) qualities.

"All right," she conceded. "Send them into Mr. Steele's office." She fixed Mr. Steele with a sharp look as she dug her fist into her abdomen to quell another gurgle. "You still owe me lunch, buster."

"I'm counting the minutes, Miss Holt."

Given Mildred's glowing description, Laura was expecting something other than the portly older couple who appeared in the doorway to Steele's office moments later. Maurice Whiteman was squat and balding, his smooth pate gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His three-piece suit was slightly dated and worn at the cuffs, but clean and neatly pressed.

His wife was what used to be called "pleasingly plump." She wore a flowing polyester dress with a large floral pattern, and sensible pumps. Her hair, which must once have been gold, was shot through with silver and framed her surprisingly youthful face in fluffy waves. Helen Whiteman, neé Mayfair, had her arm linked through her husband's, her hand clutching his forearm. Her spouse cupped a beefy palm over her hand protectively as he led her into the office.

From her position behind Steele's imposing leather desk chair, Laura could see they were awed by their first sight of the agency's putative namesake. She was used to the reaction by now; after nearly three years of inhabiting the persona of Remington Steele, the man had magnified Laura's sketchy outline into a truly larger-than-life figure. Laura had to admit a grudging admiration for how he had crafted an extraordinary, yet somehow completely convincing, man-about-town — and lifted the agency's public profile and bottom-line in the process. But her appreciation was mixed with a persistent unease: If this still-mysterious, not-quite-a-stranger could don new identities as effortlessly as he wore Steele's Brooks Brothers suits, what other deceptions was he capable of? She felt guilty for the kernel of doubt that still gnawed at her insides … but there it was.

Steele had risen and strode with his inimitable grace to greet their prospective clients. He bowed to bestow on Mrs. Whiteman one of his trademark back-of-the-hand kisses that never failed to impress. "An honor and a privilege to meet you, dear lady," he purred. "And Mr. Whiteman!" he continued, extending a hand to shake the bandleader's. "May I say I am a great fan of yours, sir."

Whiteman looked surprised. "You've heard my orchestra, Mr. Steele?"

"Alas, not in person. But I have admired your unparalleled technique with the baton in any number of classic motion pictures."

The bandleader and his songbird beamed, and Laura marveled again at her partner's debonair charm. Mr. Steele could so easily have come across as smarmy except for one thing: He sincerely liked people and enjoyed making them feel special. God knows she wasn't immune to his charisma, Laura conceded. He made _her_ feel special just by looking at her with those blue, blue eyes.

Steele gestured to the guest chairs as he resumed his place behind the sleek desk. He leaned his elbows on the desk, tented his hands under his chin and affected a pose of rapt attention. "Now, then. How can we be of service?"

The couple exchanged uneasy glances. Whiteman cleared his throat. "Erm, we're grateful to you for agreeing to meet with us in person, Mr. Steele. However, we're hoping to handle this issue as discreetly as possible." He leaned forward and continued in a conspiratorial whisper. "Would it be possible to discuss this in private?"

Steele looked slightly perplexed. He bent forward to match Whiteman's attitude and low tone. "I believe we _are_ in private, Mr. Whiteman."

Whiteman cast a quick glance at Laura, who stood behind Steele, notepad in hand. "What I mean is, could we speak to you alone? Without your secretary present?"

Laura felt hot stabs of mortification flush her cheeks. Secretary! The very idea that she was just a dictation-taking, memo-typing, coffee-making flunky! Why, she had a mind to tell this old codger where to—

"You mean Laura?" Steele spoke up, a note of real astonishment in his voice. "I assure you, Miss Holt is no secretary. She's a brilliant investigator and my most valued associate …" — he fixed Whiteman with a serious look — "… and I never accept a case without her full involvement."

Whiteman looked unconvinced, but Helen placed a hand lightly on his arm. "I'm sure it's all right, Maury. She looks like a nice, trustworthy girl."

"Absolutely. Beyond reproach," Steele agreed hurriedly, not giving Laura a chance to respond to being described as a "girl."

The older man hesitated another few seconds, then shrugged. "If you say so, Cookie," he said with a glance at his wife.

"Cookie?" Laura questioned.

"That's Maury's pet name for me," Helen explained with a fond look at her husband. "Anyway, go ahead, Maury. Tell 'em why we're here."

"My ensemble, Maurice Whiteman and the Melodiers, has been the house orchestra at the Cabana Club for 42 years," the man began.

Steele arched a brow. "Forty-two years? That displays an admirable level of commitment, Mr. Whiteman." Laura couldn't help wondering if he was struck by the contrast to his own history, having in his own words, "avoided commitment at all costs for the better part of his life." Did he _really_ appreciate this man's tenacity?

Whiteman grunted. "Necessity, more like. There aren't many places that still feature our kind of music. The Cabana's the last Big Band club on the West Coast." He scrunched his weathered face into an expression of distaste. "First it was the hippy coffee houses moving in. Then there was disco. Nowadays it's … hell, I don't even know what they call it." He waved a hand dismissively. "Just noise."

Steele nodded sympathetically. "Indeed. But I hope you haven't come here to ask us to find out where Americans' taste in popular music went so badly awry. I'm afraid that's a mystery that confounds even Remington Steele."

Whiteman looked gratified. "I'm glad we're on the same page, Steele. Anyway, six months ago Nicky Levinson — he's owned the Cabana since it opened in '39 — announced he was retiring. Going to close the club, just like that." Whiteman's voice betrayed his agitation. "Well, I couldn't let him do it, Mr. Steele! Cookie and I met in that club. The band is what let me keep my wife in nylons and chocolates all these years, and put our kids through college. Our whole life is bound up in the Cabana. Was I supposed to just let that die?"

"Of course not!" Steele declared, caught up in the man's story. "So what did you do?"

"I convinced Nick to sell the place to me. Took every penny of our life savings, but it was worth it, and I know it will pay off. There's a Big Band revival on the horizon, Mr. Steele. I can feel it. And if I can just keep the club afloat until it hits, we'll be back in the big time."

"If you're looking for investors …" Laura spoke up.

"Hell, no," Whiteman retorted. "Like I said, I bought the place outright. Cash on the barrelhead. I'm not looking for any handouts."

"I'm sure my associate didn't mean to imply any such thing," Steele intervened smoothly. "But I gather things haven't gone according to plan?"

"It was fine for the first six weeks or so. We weren't packing them in, but there was enough traffic to keep the lights on. Then stuff started to happen."

"Stuff?"

"Little things at first. A pipe burst in the office and flooded the place. That was a helluva mess. Plumber said it looked like the pipe had been pulled apart at the joint."

"It took two weeks to get it all cleaned up," Helen Whiteman interjected. "Maury was rehearsing the orchestra all day, running the club in the evening and staying late every night after closing, trying to help me get everything in the office dried out and put back together. He was exhausted." She favored her husband with a sweet smile. "I worry about my fella."

The pair exchanged a meaningful look, the kind of silent communication that long-time lovers share. Laura wondered if she and Mr. Steele would ever be that close.

"Aw, my Cookie frets too much," Whiteman blustered. "If it were just that, no problem. I can deal. But there was more."

"Go on."

"Things started disappearing. One night the music folders for the entire string section went missing half an hour before we were supposed to go on. Fortunately, the group is experienced enough to be able to wing it. Next we began finding equipment tampered with. Mike stands unscrewed, spotlight bulbs broken, that sort of thing. It happened often enough, and the incidents were unusual enough, to make it clear these weren't accidents."

"Tell them the rest, Maury," Helen prodded.

"After that, the threats started."

Laura's mild sympathy suddenly shifted to concern. "What kind of threats?"

"Anonymous notes shoved under the door: 'Shut down or else.' Graffiti spray-painted on the outside of the building. And I haven't been able to keep a vocalist for more than a month; they get one or two menacing phone calls in the middle of the night and it's sayonara. Then last week, somebody assaulted my Cookie in the green room."

"Good heavens!" Steele interjected. "I hope you weren't badly hurt, my dear."

Helen shook her head. "I was sorting through some boxes of old memorabilia, with my back to the door. All of a sudden I felt someone push me hard from behind. It knocked me down and, well, I'm not as agile as I used to be. By the time I got to my feet, whoever it was, was long gone. I'm just sorry I wasn't able to get a look at him."

"Did you go to the police?" Laura asked.

"Believe me, I would have if Cookie had let me. But she convinced me to come here instead," Maurice answered.

"We've been in show business all our lives, Mr. Steele," Mrs. Whiteman said. "Long enough to know that all publicity is NOT good publicity. The club is barely hanging on as it is. If word got out that things were falling apart …" she trailed off.

Whiteman reached over and patted his wife's hand. "She's right, of course. My wife is really the brains of this outfit." His expression darkened. "But nobody lays a finger on my Cookie," he said fiercely. "I want this guy caught and strung up."

"Absolutely right, Mr. Whiteman," Steele blustered. "The cad must be made to pay for insulting your lovely paramour." Laura could see his dander was up; one sure way to engage Mr. Steele's support was to appeal to his chivalrous side.

"Do you have any idea who the perpetrator might be, Mr. Whiteman?" Laura asked. "Any enemies?"

"Well, about the time I bought the place, a big shot developer named Wayne Martin contacted Nicky. Offered him big money for the property. Apparently he had some idea of turning it into a – what did he call it? - 'sports bar.' To Nick's credit, he valued loyalty over lucre. He agreed to sell me the Cabana at the price we'd originally negotiated. After I signed the papers, this Martin guy came around and put the screws on me to sell. I told him no dice."

Have you confronted him with your suspicions that he's behind these incidents?" Laura asked.

"Of course. Denied everything. Said he hadn't been near the place since I turned him down. But I don't believe him."

Steele nodded in agreement. "Sounds like a promising suspect."

"There was also some trouble the first week I took over," Whiteman continued. "Had to let one of the bartenders, Mickey Doolittle, go. Caught him dipping into the till."

"He didn't take his dismissal well?" Laura probed.

"He just walked out without a word. We haven't seen hide nor hair of him since, I'm happy to say."

"Still, another person of interest worth investigating." Steele was growing expansive, warming to his role as the Great Detective. It made him reckless. "I hope you're getting this all down, Laura."

"Naturally, sir," Laura answered dryly, holding up the notepad on which she had been furiously scribbling throughout the conversation. "Every tiny detail, as usual."

Steele swiveled in his chair and gave her a patronizing smile. "Excellent. Good old Laura. She really is a treasure," he commented over his shoulder to the Whitemans. Her icy glare brought him back to his senses. He turned back to the clients. "Miss Holt and I will be working in tandem to identify your tormentor and bring him to justice," he said hurriedly.

"Then you accept our case?" Helen asked.

"Of course! The Remington Steele Agency would do anything in the service of preserving a priceless jewel of this country's musical heritage," Steele assured her.

Laura kicked his ankle under the desk. "Mr. Steele, might I have a word?"

He winced and jumped to his feet, putting safe distance between himself and Laura's sharp-toed sling-backs. "In a moment, Miss Holt," he said, rounding the desk and extending a hand to help Mrs. Whiteman from her seat. "I'm sure the Whitemans need to get back to their club. We can discuss our strategy over lunch."

"We're so grateful for your help," Helen said as the pair exited the office.

"Not at all. We'll be in touch," Steele waved them out. He turned around reluctantly, anticipating Laura's steely gaze. "No need to thank me, Laura. I'm always happy to do my part to help the agency stay in the black."

"We've talked many, many times about you accepting cases without prior discussion," she said evenly.

"Yes, but of course in this instance I knew you'd agree," he said, moving close and putting his arms around her slim waist. "Who could deny such a sweet old couple, just trying to live their American dream … why, it would be almost unpatriotic."

"Well, it looks like we're committed now," she responded. "So what's your plan, Mr. Steele?"

"Ah. Ahem." He frowned. "That's really more your line, isn't it, Laura? I mean, I'm the Big Picture man, the … er … high-level strategist. And you work out the details."

"Ha! Remind me of that the next time you decide to go off on your own to play detective."

He gave her a cajoling look and swayed her gently in his arms. "But you know I always rely on your superior intelligence, your keen understanding of the criminal mind, your …" He floundered in the face of her skeptical look. "Your …. pluck!" he concluded triumphantly.

"Pluck?"

He shrugged and gave her a wry grin. "Sorry. That's all I've got."

Laura was torn between the desire to give him a good, stiff shove and the undeniably delicious sensation of being rocked in his arms. As he began to nuzzle her neck she decided there was really no point in arguing about … about … what was it they were arguing about again? She sighed and moved against him, slanting her head to give his lips access to the exquisitely sensitive hollow at the top of her collarbone.

"I suppose we can follow up with the developer and the bartender," she murmured, struggling to maintain her concentration as he dropped soft kisses along her jawline. "It would also … ah … be helpful … to have … access … mmm … to the club. Keep an eye on … ohhhh … what goes on."

Steele suddenly broke away and laughed out loud. "You're a tough nut to crack, Laura."

"Still business hours, Mr. Steele," she responded, a touch of regret in her voice. Flustered, she tugged her slightly rumpled pencil skirt and fitted jacket primly back into place.

"Let's break for lunch then," Steele answered. "I suddenly have a brilliant idea of how we can keep tabs on the inner workings of the Cabana Club."

"Really?"

"An inspiration, Miss Holt. And I'll tell you all about it over lunch." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "At Finelli's, I think."


	2. Chapter 2

Laura sat with folded arms and a pained expression in the passenger seat of the Auburn Speedster as Steele steered the auto expertly down the 110 toward what passed for "downtown" Los Angeles. The agency had acquired the vintage roadster a few months ago, and it fit Steele like a glove.

"I still can't believe you talked Whiteman into this!" Laura shouted into the stiff breeze.

Steele spared her a quick, sidelong glance, his eyes sparkling with the exhilaration of the open-air ride. "Oh, he balked at first," Steele hollered back, guiding the car onto the exit to West 7th. As the car idled at the light at the end of the ramp, purring like a leopard, he turned to his partner. "But he agreed to a three-night trial when I explained about your extensive professional experience …"

"Professional experience!" Laura gasped, pulled suddenly against the seatback as Steele gunned the accelerator on the green light. "_What_ professional experience?"

Arriving at their destination, Steele nosed the Auburn into a parking space in front of a large, slightly dated-looking building. The words "Cabana Club" arranged in a semi-circle around a stylized palm tree glowed in green neon on the stucco exterior. Steele exited the car and hurried around to open Laura's door. Offering a hand to help her out of the low chassis, he explained, "You're always talking about that college glee club you were in, and I distinctly remember you leading a rousing chorus of 'O Tannenbaum' at last year's office Christmas party." He put an arm around her shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. "And in all the time I've known you, you've never been less than a consummate professional. Ergo …"

"That's a pretty creative definition of 'professional singer,'" Laura answered dryly.

"Creativity is one of my strong points, Miss Holt." He placed a hand gently on the small of her back as they walked up the sidewalk to the club's front entrance.

At the door, Laura stopped suddenly, turned to him and grabbed hold of the neat knot of his silk tie. "Now that you've explained how you conned Whiteman into having me pose as his new vocalist, tell me one more thing, Mr. Steele."

"Anything."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "How in hell did you talk ME into it?"

Entering the club, Laura and Steele found themselves in a gleaming, art deco foyer. If the outside of the club had seen better days, it was clear the interior had been lovingly preserved. Soft, silvery gray walls were accented with rich, mahogany moldings. The lobby's terrazzo floor terminated at the base of a crimson-carpeted staircase that curved sinuously up to a pair of dark wood doors inlaid with a diamond pattern of a lighter color. Around the perimeter of the semi-circular room, framed photos chronicled the club in its heyday. Laura's eye lit on one in particular: a black-and-white still of a slim, dark-haired man in a white dinner jacket gazing adoringly at a stunning blonde woman in a flowing, Grecian-style gown.

"Look familiar?"

The detectives turned to see Helen Whiteman crossing the foyer from the door to what Laura guessed was the coat-check room. Laura's eyes widened in sudden recognition. "You?" she gestured at the photo.

"Whiteman and Fairfax, surely the most stylish representatives of a truly glamorous bygone era," Steele commented.

The lady smiled. "You are a real charmer, Mr. Steele." She stepped to the photo and traced a finger lightly over the outline of the youthful version of herself. "But I'll admit we weren't half bad, back in the day." Her expression grew soft and a little sad. "That was a long time ago."

"And yet you are as lovely as ever," Steele said, provoking a sharp bark of laughter from Helen. "Like I said. A real charmer." She turned to Laura and gave her a quick wink. "You must have your hands full keeping this one in line."

"You have no idea." Laura grinned at Steele's affronted look.

A muted sound of music suddenly floated to them from somewhere inside the club. "Maury's rehearsing the boys," Helen explained. "Want to take a peek?"

She led the detectives up the staircase and softly pushed open the doors. They emerged on the top level of a room shaped like a shallow bowl. Small tables, flanked by sensuously curved leather chairs, were arranged on tiers that stepped down from the top of the room to the shiny parquet dance floor. Each cloth-draped table was topped by a small lamp; teardrop sconces set discreetly into the walls at strategic intervals provided the only other illumination in the seating area. A well-polished bar occupied a quarter of the top tier on the side opposite where they stood. Ground level featured a circular dance floor and half-moon stage where the orchestra sat in tiers of their own.

Laura noted that the covers of their music stands were emblazoned with the word "Melodiers" in a stylized font that evoked the feel of the old Fred and Ginger movies Steele had introduced her to early in their relationship. An opalescent scrim formed the backdrop of the stage, and curtains of some slightly sparkling fabric hung from the ceiling at both sides of the performing space.

"Glorious," Steele breathed beside her.

Laura smiled to herself. Of course Steele would love this place – it was exactly his style. Sometimes Laura felt her partner was a man out of another time, a smooth, sophisticated reincarnation of the classic movie heroes he idolized: Gable. Niven. Powell. And Grant, of course. Always Grant. Indeed, with his easy, fluid movements, impeccable sartorial style, suave persona and astonishing good looks, Steele practically out-Cary'd Grant.

The thought gave her pause. Steele had told her all about Archibald Leach, the neglected, lower-class Cockney kid who reinvented himself into every woman's ideal of the Perfect Man. Steele was enamored of Cary Grant's rags-to-riches story, but what Laura had learned about the movie star's personal life from perusing Steele's collection of Hollywood biographies made her a little sad. It seemed Archie Leach believed he had to embody his fictional alter ego to the extent of suppressing who he really was. His polished persona became a kind of prison. The thought that being Remington Steele might prove a similar strain on the man beside her ignited a flicker of worry in the deepest core of her, that hidden place where all things Steele seemed to reside.

But if the man-without-a-name had qualms about the role he'd chosen to play, it wasn't apparent at the moment. He was engaged in animated, whispered conversation with Helen Whiteman, his head was bobbing slightly in time to the upbeat samba the band below them was playing. Laura turned her attention to musicians. Whiteman stood in front of the bandstand, waving a small baton in short, brisk movements. They were good. The realization ratcheted up the knot of insecurity already twisting in her gut. Laura knew she was a damned good investigator. But a Big Band singer? She could only pray she'd be able to pull it off …

Helen led them back downstairs and pulled a ring with several keys from her pocket. Selecting one, she unlocked the door that led them into the cramped cubbyhole that served as the club's business office. She cleared a space on the battered desk next to a bank of file cabinets. "They're all yours, Mr. Steele. Hope they'll be useful."

Steele grimaced and settled himself into the wooden desk chair. The male half of the Steele Agency's investigative team would be spending the next several hours poring through the records of the club, looking for clues to who might be trying to shut the place down … and why. Laura felt a twinge of sympathy. The air in the office was stuffy, the chair looked decidedly uncomfortable, and Steele deeply hated anything that smacked of the nuts-and-bolts, detail-oriented drudgery that were part and parcel of a detective's job.

Still, he had only grumbled a little when she'd made the assignment back at the office. It occurred to Laura that lately Mr. Steele had been showing himself more willing to take an equal role in their work, perhaps because he realized with Murphy and Bernice gone and Mildred still learning the ropes, much of weight of keeping the agency functioning had fallen to Laura.

"I'll take you back to the dressing room and we can start looking for something for you to wear," Helen told Laura.

"Oh, don't go to any trouble," Laura answered. "I think I can scrounge something up from my own closet — we attend quite a few formal functions as part of our work."

"Nonsense!" Helen said, taking Laura's forearm to lead her out of the office. "I've got all my old gowns tucked away, just waiting for the right kind of girl to wear them again."

"Well, I can assure you Laura is definitely the right kind of girl," Steele said, giving Laura a teasing look. "I can hardly wait to see what you come up with."

"I'm afraid you won't see her again until tonight. We have your Miss Holt booked solid with fittings and rehearsals the rest of the day," Helen told Steele. "Getting up to speed at such short notice will be a challenge, but I'm sure a professional like Laura will take it in stride."

Laura gave her partner a tight smile. "Wish me luck."

Steele smiled warmly. "Break a leg, kid."


	3. Chapter 3

Helen led Laura through a winding series of narrow backstage corridors to the dressing room, where she dipped into her pocket for the key ring again. "We keep most doors locked, since things started happening," she explained to Laura as she opened the narrow, wooden door. Trailing the bandleader's wife into the chamber, Laura was surprised to see that, unlike the dingy business office, the dressing room mirrored the public areas of the club in small scale. Art deco with an Egyptian influence set the design scheme, from a glossy, black dressing screen painted with images of Cleopatra and her handmaidens to pyramid-shaped wall sconces on the pale gold walls. A fainting couch with a tall, rolled ends looked like something depicted on the wall of an ancient pharoah's tomb.

The make-up table was dominated by a wide, oval mirror bordered by small, round light bulbs that looked like they dated from the club's early days. A collection of cosmetics and brushes was arranged neatly on the table. The back wall was spanned corner to corner with a clothes rack, thickly hung with evening gowns of every color and style.

"Wow!" Laura blurted. "This is incredible."

Mrs. Whiteman seemed pleased by her reaction. "This was my personal retreat," she reminisced. "A little jewel box of serenity away from the hubbub of the club. Even Maury wasn't allowed in here." She gave Laura a wink. "At least, not very often."

"It's lovely."

Helen led Laura over to the couch and they sat down. "I've kept it nice all these years," she said, gazing around the room. "Even after I retired, Nick let me keep it for myself. I used to sit here night after night, rocking babies or doing needlework and listening to the orchestra play. Nick converted the Green Room into a space for the vocalists to use. You'll be the first singer to use this room in 37 years."

"I'm honored, but I don't know why I deserve such special treatment."

The older woman gave Laura a warm smile. "You're helping Maury and me. Isn't that enough reason? And you kind of remind me of myself when I was first starting out with the band. You've got …" she thought a moment. "Pluck."

Laura laughed. "Funny, someone else said that to me recently. I wasn't sure it was a compliment then, but I guess it is." A sudden thought struck her. "You said it's been 37 years since you performed?"

Helen nodded. "I quit singing after Maury and I got married in 1947."

"How come?"

The former headliner gave a little shrug. "Well, that's what was done in those days. Maury wouldn't have any wife of his in show business."

"But that's where he met you!" Laura exclaimed. "What was acceptable when you were single became suddenly scandalous once he put a ring on your finger?"

Helen looked slightly taken aback at Laura's vehement reaction. "Now, my dear, don't get worked up. I know it's hard for you liberated girls to understand, but I didn't mind giving up my career to become a wife and mother. It's what I expected to do. And I've never regretted it. My life has really been very fulfilling."

"I'm glad," Laura replied. "But I'm sorry you had to make the choice. At least my generation has progressed enough to realize a woman can have a professional life _and_ a family."

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, dear, I can't help noticing that you're still single. I mean, it's clear you are very successful in your work, but wouldn't you like someone special to go through life with?"

"I'm still in my twenties," Laura said defensively. "And just because I've chosen to devote this part of my life to my career doesn't mean I'm doomed to lonely spinsterhood."

"Oh, I didn't mean to upset you, Laura," Helen clucked, patting the younger woman's hand. "I'm sure you'll find some nice fellow someday soon and settle down."

Laura fought to quash her simmering irritation. The very phrase, _settle down_, was grating. Why should she have to change who she is? "Well, even if I don't ever marry, it's hardly the end of the world. I happen to love my independence. And I'm certainly never going to let some man make my decisions for me."

"Of course not! No woman would," Helen agreed.

"You did!"

Helen laughed. "Oh, honey. You have a lot to learn about male-female relationships. Any choices I've ever made have been my own. But if Maury happens to believe they're his, I don't mind. It makes him happy to think he's taking care of me, and it makes me happy to be able to make him happy. That's what love is about, after all."

"Lying and manipulation?"

"No. Being sensitive to someone else's feelings and needs. Being willing to compromise, and accepting there are times when what that other person wants you to do needs to be what you want to do, because that's what makes the relationship work."

"I just don't I could ever be that … pliant. If Mr. St – if _someone_ is wrong, how I can just let him believe he's right? That way he wins!"

Helen cupped Laura's cheek gently and gave her a knowing look. "Well, perhaps when the right person comes along, it will feel less like a competition. Now, let's take a look at these dresses."

"Achoo!" Steele fished into his breast pocket for his handkerchief and gave his nose a good blow. It galled him to have to use the neatly folded, pale blue silk square, carefully chosen to accent the impeccable tailoring of his suit, for such a distastefully functional purpose. But after just half an hour in the musty, slightly mildew-scented office, Steele felt his sinuses becoming well and truly stuffed up.

Even worse, he'd just brushed up against a box of old records and gotten dust all over his pants leg. Frowning, he reached down to rub the offending schmutz away … then found himself chuckling. "You're really becoming quite a dandy, old boy," he muttered. Since assuming the identity of Remington Steele, he'd maintained a fastidious, not-a-hair-out-of-place perfection in keeping with the celebrated detective's cosmopolitan image. It was a style that suited him – but he remembered times when he would have been grateful to crawl into a grubby place like this just to get out of the cold.

He turned his attention to another file cabinet. So far his review of the club's records hadn't turned up anything very remarkable … beyond confirming what he'd read between the lines of the Whiteman's eagerness for the agency's help: the club was on very shaky financial ground. It wouldn't take much to send it over the edge. Shame, Steele thought. The Whitemans seemed like decent people. He'd always had a soft spot for salt-of-the-earth types like them who worked hard and dreamed big. Too bad the world so rarely rewarded them for it.

This drawer, at least, brought a modicum of pay dirt. It was the payroll records, and revealed that, apart from the remarkable stability of the orchestral complement, it had the usual revolving door of staff: waiters and bartenders who stayed a few months, perhaps a couple of years, then moved on. The file on Mickey Doolittle, the bartender fired for theft, brought a surprise: he'd been employed more than four years, apparently without incident, before the club's new owners had given him the gate shortly after taking over. Steele quickly jotted down the man's address on file. It didn't seem like he was going to learn much more from the club's records; perhaps a personal visit to Mr. Doolittle would prove more fruitful. Steele tucked the address in his inside vest pocket and left the club. Climbing into the Auburn, he wondered how Laura's transformation into vintage canary was coming along.

"Now here's a nice little number," Helen said, pulling out a one-shouldered dress of gold lame. She held it up to Laura and eyed the effect. "Hmm. Not quite," she said and tucked it back into place on the rack.

Laura felt a niggling impatience. She enjoyed beautiful clothes, but this trip through fashion history wasn't helping her solve the Whitemans' problem. Plus, she hadn't even met with the orchestra yet and had no idea what she would be singing that evening. The realization brought a slight tightness to her chest. Laura loved to sing, but she was a long way from her glee club days.

"So," Helen said casually as she shuffled through a few more gowns, "that boss of yours is a handsome, silver-tongued devil, isn't he?"

"He has his charms," Laura replied casually.

"Reminds me of my Maury when he was a young buck."

"Yes, I noticed in the picture in the lobby. You two made quite an elegant pair."

Helen paused in her gown shuffling to give Laura a warm smile. "Yeah, we did, if I do say so myself. Maury was quite the sport in those days. A real ladykiller, and all the girls were crazy about him. Of course, that all changed when I made a respectable man of him."

"And how did you manage that?"

Helen laughed. "It wasn't easy! Especially since Maury had a lot of … pep." She gave Laura a meaningful look that made the younger woman chuckle.

"Had to keep him at arm's length, eh?" Laura knew the feeling.

"Not quite arm's length. But I let him know from the beginning that I wasn't going to become another notch on his trombone case, if you get my drift. But of course, that was back in the 'olden days.' I know it's a lot different now."

Laura grew thoughtful. "Not so different."

"Oh?"

Miss Holt shrugged. "Standards of behavior may have relaxed since then, but I don't think any woman wants to be just a 'notch,' as you put it." She looked down at her hands. "At least, I don't."

"Good for you, dear!"

Laura hesitated. She was normally very private about her … issues … with Mr. Steele. But something about this motherly woman put Laura in a confiding mood. "But I also don't want to be alone for the rest of my life."

"Does it have to be one or the other?"

"Sometimes it seems like those are the only choices," Laura said softly. "Mr. Steele has made it clear he wants to take our relationship to the next level – and to be honest, a big part of me wants that, too."

"But?"

"Mr. Steele is a man who likes, as he says, impossible challenges. If I give in to what he wants – to what we both want – I'm afraid he'll eventually lose interest and walk away."

"And if you hold your ground?"

Laura laughed humorlessly. "I'm afraid he'll eventually lose interest and walk away. Between a rock and a hard place – that's where I pick up my mail."

The former Helen Mayfair gave Laura's arm a sympathetic squeeze. "Sexual revolution or no, the male-female dance hasn't gotten any easier, it seems. Believe me, Laura, I had the same hopes and fears about Maury as you do about Mr. Steele. And though I didn't know it at the time, my guy was having his own wrestling match with what he wanted — the excitement of a new conquest every week or the potential for something deeper and lasting. I wonder if your Mr. Steele is feeling the same way."

"I doubt that," Laura grunted. "He's admitted he's spent the better part of his life avoiding commitment like the plague."

"It's just possible the 'better' part of his life hasn't started yet," Helen said sagely. "It might take him a while to realize that."

Laura didn't know what to say to that, so she decided to change the subject. "I have to say, if Maurice was half the man you and our secretary Mildred depict him to be, I have to admire your willpower."

One of Helen's trademark, throaty laughs erupted. "Believe me, Laura, I was no nun. Like I said, Maury was a very sexy man – and I wasn't half bad myself in those days. We were young, in love, and in close proximity. Add a few glasses of champagne and let's just say we had a few … ahem … frisky evenings."

"Why, Helen Whiteman!" Laura gasped in pretended shock.

The former girl singer affected a look of mock primness. "But I always knew when to say when." A pause. "But to be perfectly honest, 'when' became something of a moving target. It's just lucky Maury and I tied the knot when we did!" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively in a way that reminded Laura of Steele in his playful moments.

They both laughed, then Helen grew serious. "No matter what year it is, everybody — male and female — is looking for the same thing. Surely Mr. Steele is no exception. Perhaps he just needs a reminder of what a rare jewel he can win if he plays his cards right."

"I'm open to suggestions."

Helen pondered a moment. Then her expression brightened. "I think I know just the number for you to perform tonight," she said excitedly. "A special song to show off what a sweet, genuine girl you really are."

"Um, sweet? I'm not sure that's –"

"No man can resist a really wholesome young lady," Helen continued, ignoring Laura's doubtful expression. "And I've got the perfect gown …" She rifled through the rack and pulled out a dress with a triumphant, "Here it is!"

"Oh … my," Laura stammered.

"Extraordinary, isn't it? Maury told me he decided to pop the question the night I wore this dress."

"I'm not really looking for a proposal …"

"Of course not. Not _yet_. But I guarantee you, in this dress Mr. Steele will look at you in a whole new way."

Laura gave the gown another once-over and forced a polite smile. "Of that I have no doubt," she murmured.


	4. Chapter 4

Steele pulled the Auburn into the parking lot of a modest-looking apartment complex and found an empty spot. The building was a far cry from his own high-end address in a more fashionable part of town, but it wasn't a dump, either. Not far from UCLA, it looked like the kind of place that catered to students and young professionals just starting out. Not where Steele had expected to find the former barkeep of the Cabana Club.

He strolled to the main entrance, passing a couple of early-twenty-something women in bikinis, apparently en route to the complex's swimming pool. Steele exchanged appreciative glances with them, then turned his attention to the directory outside the door. As he'd hoped, he found "M. Doolittle" neatly printed on a label next to a button marked "314C." He pushed the button and waited.

Seconds later a male voice issued from the speaker on the directory panel. "Yeah? Who is it?"

"Am I speaking with Mr. Michael Doolittle?" Steele's crisp accent responded.

"That depends. If you're selling magazine or handing out the Watchtower, I never heard of him."

"Neither, I assure you. My name it Steele – Remington Steele, of Remington Steele Investigations. I'd like to have a word with you."

There were several seconds of silence. Then: "What's this about?" The voice sounded nervous.

"Not the sort of thing one wishes to discuss through a loud speaker in hearing range of one's friends and neighbors," Steele answered. "I only need a few moments of your time, Mr. Doolittle."

More silence. Then a loud buzzing and Steele heard the front door lock click open. He grabbed the door handle and went inside.

Despite having been let into the building, Steele knocked several times on the door of Apartment 314C without response. He'd just about decided the occupant had legged it out a back window when the door opened a crack and the pale face of a young man appeared.

"Lemme see some ID."

Steele pulled out his wallet and opened it, displaying his detective license with a flourish. It was a forgery, of course; he had many reasons for avoiding official paperwork. He didn't want to imagine how Laura would react if she discovered he had it. It was this kind of ruse that tended to prompt uncomfortable associations with his con man past. But it was a minor indiscretion, and he was convinced it would come in useful in their work. Besides, he wanted it — and he felt he'd earned it.

It certainly worked like a charm in this instance. Doolittle scanned the card, looked at Steele, and gulped audibly. "Okay, Mr. Steele," he stammered, fumbling with the lock. "I don't want any trouble." The door opened and he let Steele into a sparsely furnished studio apartment.

The detective sat down on a blanket-covered futon and gestured for Doolittle to take the easy chair opposite. The kid looked scared to death, Steele noted.

"Do you know why I'm here, Mr. Doolittle?" Steele opened.

"Seriously, Mr. Steele, I don't. Did I forget to return a library book or something?" He cracked a weak smile.

"It's in regard to a certain incident at the Cabana Club about six months ago."

Doolittle's eyes widened. "But that was all taken care of, cleared up," he sputtered. "I gave back the money, and they said there'd be no trouble if I just left the club and didn't come back!" His expression darkened suddenly. "Mr. Whiteman sent you here, didn't he? I knew I couldn't trust him, no matter what Mrs. Whiteman said. Crazy old codger always had it in for me."

"There were ill feelings between you and Maurice Whiteman?"

"Nah. He had ill feelings toward _me_, but I had no beef with the guy." A sudden panic appeared on Doolittle's face. "Geez, he's not dead, is he? I swear, I haven't been within 10 miles of that place since I got fired!"

"No, Mr. Whitehead and his lovely wife are both fine," Steele assured him, "but why would Maurice have it in for you, as you say?"

Doolittle snorted. "He saw me talking to Mrs. Whitehead a few times. Got the idea I was making a play for her. Can you feature it?" He shook his head. "I mean, Helen's a real nice lady, but she's like my grandma."

"Hmm." Steele narrowed his eyes. "And why _were_ you talking to Mrs. Whitehead?"

"We were just passing the time, you know? She'd come with Mr. Whitehead every night before the club opened, while I was setting up the bar, and we'd talk. To tell you the truth, I think she was a little lonely — all her kids grown up and Maury always busy with the band."

Steele's eyebrows raised slightly. "Lonely, eh? Is it possible she was looking for more than idle chit-chat?" He found it hard to imagine Helen Whiteman as the Mrs. Robinson type, but stranger things had happened.

"What do you mean?"

"The Graduate. Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft, United Artists, 1967."

"Huh?" The young man stared blankly, and Steele had cause again to rue the younger generation's woeful lack of knowledge of cinematic history.

"Never mind. Is it possible Helen was interested in more than an employer-employee relationship with you?"

Doolittle looked slightly queasy. "Are you kidding? No way! She's nuts about her husband — go figure — and frankly, I prefer women who were born in _this_ century."

Steele had to smile inwardly at the man's evident discomfort. If Helen had been testing the waters (and he honestly believed she wasn't), young Mr. Doolittle wasn't buying what she was peddling. This line of questioning looked like a dead end. He took a new tack.

"So why'd you take the money, Mickey?" He let just a hint of his hard-boiled Sam Spade impression come out.

The young man's expression became guarded. "I needed it."

"For what?"

Mickey shifted uneasily. "Stuff. I'm going to school, and I got expenses. I needed the green."

"More than you needed a job? I can't figure it, Mickey. Four years on the job, not a blemish on your record. Then you chuck it for what, maybe fifty bucks?"

"Thirty-seven fifty," Doolittle replied, then appeared to regret it.

"Granted, I got my own education across the pond at Cambridge," Steele said. "But I'm under the impression that even at your state schools, $38 isn't going to pay for many college credits."

Doolittle crossed his arms over his chest and gave Steele a level stare. "Like I said. I needed the money."

Laura stood beside Helen in the wings of the small stage, watching Maurice put the Melodiers through their paces. They were playing an up-tempo dance tune, and Laura found her toes tapping to the beat.

"You're driving me crazy," Helen whispered.

"I'm sorry!" Laura stammered, stilling her feet.

Helen giggled. "No, dear. That's the name of the song. Billie Holiday had a big hit with it."

"Yes, of course." Laura gave herself an internal kick on the shins. She'd better up her game if she was going to pass for the "professional singer" Mr. Steele had billed her.

Somehow she had a feeling Steele wouldn't have made that particular slip-up; with his encyclopedic knowledge of entertainment's Golden Age, he had a better-than-working-knowledge of this kind of music. In truth, this cover would have been better suited to him — except for the fact that his singing voice could most charitably be described as mediocre. She smiled at the thought. It was just as well he was tone deaf; add crooner to his already extensive list of personal assets and the man would be truly … irresistible.

The song ended with a sassy trombone sting, and Helen and Laura clapped their appreciation. Whiteman turned and favored them with a broad smile, lingering on his wife.

"Boys," he announced, "Let me introduce you to our new singer, Laura."

Seventeen faces of roughly Whiteman's age looked expectantly at her. "I'm honored to be working with a group of the caliber of the Melodiers," Laura said, hugging her sheet music to her chest like a nervous schoolgirl.

"We figured we'd start her off easy, just one song tonight," Whiteman explained to the group. "So what do you have in mind, honey?"

Recalling her earlier conversation about generational differences in male-female interactions, Laura stifled an urge to firmly explain to Whiteman that she was nobody's "honey." He meant it as a compliment, and she decided to accept it that way. She handed him the music Helen had selected for her earlier.

Whiteman looked at the title and frowned.

"Something wrong?" Laura asked.

"No … it's just not quite what I expected, I guess."

Laura cast a questioning look in Helen's direction. "Now, Maury," the bandleader's wife tutted, "Give the girl a chance to show you what she can do with it."

"You know best, Cookie," Whiteman said with a shrug. "Page 72, boys."

There was a shuffling of pages in the stands and a swell of low murmuring from the musicians. A sax player in the third row coughed suddenly; Laura had a sneaking suspicion he was covering a snicker.

"Go ahead, Laura," Helen prompted. "I know you're gonna kill it."

Stepping uncertainly to the microphone, Laura decided that the only thing she was likely to kill tonight had mesmerizing blue eyes and an English accent.


	5. Chapter 5

Steele called the Cabana Club after leaving Michael Doolittle, hoping to bring Laura up to speed and find out how her day had gone. Helen answered the phone and explained that Laura was still in rehearsal.

In response to his query, Mrs. Whiteman assured Steele that Laura was doing wonderfully. "She's really a very special girl, you know," she told him.

"You'll get no argument from me on that score, Helen," Steele agreed. "Miss Holt is remarkable in every way." He conjured up an image of Laura in some slinky number, draped provocatively over a Baby Grand as she moaned a sexy jazz standard with Marilyn Monroe-esque sensuality. Feeling just a bit hot around the collar, Steele thanked Helen and asked her to tell Laura on his behalf to knock 'em dead.

By the time Steele returned to his penthouse, showered, grabbed a bite, donned his tux and tie and summoned Fred with the limo, it was nearly 9:00 pm. He had Fred drop him outside the entrance and told him he knock off for the night; it was apt to be a late night, and he and Laura would grab a cab home.

After dark, the Cabana Club looked less run down. The green neon palm tree looked stylishly retro. A maroon carpet had been rolled out from the door to the gutter, lit by tiny lights. A smartly dressed doorman welcomed him with a node and tip of his cap. Entering the foyer, Steele was pleased to find it moderately crowded — not bad for a Thursday night.

Standing at the base of the grand staircase was Helen Whiteman. She'd changed her conservative day dress for a sparkling black gown and heels. She was smiling and greeting patrons as they passed her on their way up to the club. Even in her 60s, Helen was a lovely woman, Steele reflected, though her energetic demeanor was belied by a slight tiredness around the eyes.

"Ah, Helen Whiteman! Surely the woman for whom the phrase 'hostess with the mostess' was coined," Steele said, bowling low to plant a kiss on her hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Steele," she responded silkily. "And may I say you cut quite a dashing figure this evening."

"Flatterer!" Steele stepped closer and bent to whisper in Helen's ear. "How is Miss Holt doing?"

"Brilliantly!" Helen gushed, though Steele thought her enthusiasm sounded just a tiny bit forced. "She's in the dressing room, getting herself all dolled up for her moment in the spotlight." Helen glanced quickly at a delicate watch face suspended from a gold chain around her neck. "She goes on in about 20 minutes."

"Perhaps I'll just nip back to the dressing room to give her one of my famous pep talks," Steele said, starting to move in that direction.

Helen caught him neatly by the sleeve. "Uh, uh, uh," she said, shaking her head. "You know what they say: The groom isn't supposed to see the bride before the wedding."

Steele arched one brow. "Is someone getting married here tonight?"

"No …" Helen answered with an enigmatic smile. "Not _tonight_. But in the future, who can say? A sharp girl like Laura attracts a lot of attention. Somebody could come along and snap her up while somebody wasn't looking, if somebody takes my meaning."

Steele feigned confusion. "Indeed, dear lady, I'm sure _somebody_ must take your meaning… musn't somebody?"

Helen looked faintly irritated by his apparent obtuseness. "All I'm saying is –"

"Perhaps I'll just go on in and find a seat, shall I?"

Helen nodded. "I've reserved a nice table for you right down front. That way you'll have a perfect view of Laura, and afterwards you can have a glass of champagne together and toast her debut."

"Sounds delightful. Will you join me for her number?"

"I wish I could, Mr. Steele," Helen answered, "but I'm on duty here all night. We sometimes get a few latecomers after the late show at the movie theatre down the street gets out."

"Ah, that's a shame. Still, I'm sure she'll feel your support." Steele gave Helen another courtly little bow and headed up the stairs into the club. The Melodiers, looking dapper in white dinner jackets, were playing a slow waltz to the tempo of Whiteman's bobbing baton.

As promised, Steele found a table at the edge of the dance floor that had his name printed on a small card. It would indeed prove the perfect venue for watching Laura's performance; however, it was less conveniently situated to observe the patrons and staff of the club, which was his primary objective.

Steele meandered casually back up the other side of the room to where the bar was. He ordered a Scotch on the rocks from the middle-aged barman and leaned against the polished brass rail, scanning the crowd. The place was about half full, and the patrons skewed heavily to the older generation. In fact, he half-wondered if the waiters who moved among the tables were delivering trays of warm milk in lieu of more potent potables.

Just then the orchestra struck up a playful samba and Steele was astonished to see the geriatrics leap to their feet and flood the dance floor. Whatever aches and pains they might nurse during the day were apparently forgotten under the slowly turning mirror ball that illuminated the dance floor with dancing diamonds of light. The couples swayed and swirled with a grace and dexterity that only decades of experience could accomplish.

As the dancers cavorted, Steele turned his attention to those few patrons still at tables and around the bar. Despite the preponderance of oldsters, he noted a few younger faces, including a couple guys in Zoot suits who looked to be teenagers. Perhaps Whiteman was right about that impending Big Band revival. The wait staff, dressed in red cut-away jackets and black pants, moved with quiet efficiency among the tables, delivering filled glasses and picking up empties. There were only three people besides himself and the bartender in the bar: a middle-aged couple who were engrossed in each other to the exclusion of everything else, and a fiftyish fellow in an expensive suit who hung at the end of the bar. Curiously, he seemed as intent on observing the occupants of the club as Steele was. Catching the detective's look, the man abruptly turned and walked briskly to the exit, then was gone.

The samba ended and the dancers rambled back to their seats. The band paused to allow the crowd to get settled, then Steele observed Maurice Whiteman raise his baton to start the next number. The tune began with a soft, almost plaintive calling of woodwinds rising and falling like gentle waves. Steele smiled when he saw the bandleader nod toward the wings. "Show time," he said softly.

There was a slight rustling in the shimmering side curtain and Laura Holt stepped into view. A spotlight snapped on and swiveled to find where she stood, hesitant, near the curtain; Steele wondered for a second whether she was about to cut and run. His gaze swept her from head to toe, and Steele decided he wouldn't blame her if she did.

Laura — his exquisite, elegant Laura — looked like something out of a bad Sandra Dee movie. Her glorious mane of chestnut-colored hair was swept into an elaborate up-do (the word "beehive" flitted through his mind). Her gown was strapless; that much he approved of. But beneath the shirred bodice, the skirt tumbled in a frothy cascade of layer upon layer of chiffon ruffles. The whole confection fairly glowed in a shade that might best be described as "Pepto pink." It occurred to Steele that she bore a vague resemblance to a puffy cloud of the cotton candy she was so fond of.

It wasn't possible for the luminous Miss Holt to look really bad, of course. But this … "Yikes," Steele heard himself mutter. As he watched, she suddenly drew herself up to her full height, and with a toss of her head, started across the stage toward the waiting microphone. Halfway there, a swath of her voluminous skirt fluttered between her legs, impeding her movement. Steele suppressed a chuckle as she broke her stride ever so briefly to unobtrusively tug — then peevishly yank — the offending fabric out of the way. She reached the old-fashioned stand microphone just as the orchestra finished the introduction. There was just time to draw a fast breath before launching into her song:

_I speak to the stars in a sky full of wonder …_

Steele recognized the ballad, an old Sammy Fain/Paul Francis Webber number from the film "Lucky Me" (Doris Day, Robert Cummings, Warner Brothers 1954, he noted internally). Doris Day. America's Ever-Virginal Sweetheart. That explained the get-up, at least.

He closed his eyes to eliminate the distraction of her overwrought apparel and let her warm mezzo-soprano wash over him. Her voice was strong and pitch perfect … but Steele detected the slightest trace of a waver in the held notes. It was a flicker that would be noticed only by someone who knew her well, who had listened to her humming pop tunes through the door of her office and belting out Pat Benatar as she cruised well over the speed limit in her sporty WV Rabbit. Only someone who was _that _close to her would have detected it: Laura was nervous.

It surprised him. He had seen Laura face every kind of mortal danger, from cut-throat killers to snarling Dobermans, with — to coin a phrase — Steeley resolve. In fact, apart from an understandable moment of vulnerability when her house burned, she had managed every situation with cool aplomb … to the point that Steele had begun to wonder if there was anything this amazing woman couldn't handle. That made this tiny, barely perceptible chink in her invisible armor all the more astonishing. He opened his eyes again. Framed in the halo of the spot, Laura stood with both hands in a death grip on the mike stand, staring straight ahead as the song swelled to its maudlin climax:

_Do I make too much_

_of the promise in a stranger's eyes?_

_What will happen when the magic dies –_

_Am I riding for a fall?_

Steele turned abruptly back to the bar and drained his Scotch. He'd never liked Doris Day.

Moments later, after a final verse and a round of tepid applause, Laura took a quick bow and the spotlight snapped off. Steele watched Laura's dark silhouette fairly sprint off stage and behind the scrim. He quickly descended to ground level, skirted the dance floor and nipped behind the side curtain, hoping to intercept her on the way to the dressing room. The passageway from stage to the "business" end of the club was narrow, dark and crowded with equipment, props, instrument cases and assorted junk. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Steele observed a pale blob directly ahead: Laura, back to him and slightly bent over as she fussed impatiently with some part of her gown.

Grinning, he moved stealthily behind her. "Spare a minute for your biggest fan, Miss Holt?"

She shot upright and wheeled around, arm raised to deliver a karate chop. He caught her wrist at eye level just before it hit home. As her mouth dropped open in sudden recognition, he smirked. "Really, Laura, if you don't give autographs, you could just say so." As she tried to yank her arm away, he tugged her against him. "That's the thing about celebrities," he murmured in her ear. "Once they hit the big time, they forget all about the little people who made it all possible."

"You are a funny, funny man, Mr. Steele." She wasn't smiling. He let go of her and she took a step back. "Help me get out of this, will you?"

"Laura, you don't know how long I've been waiting to hear those words."

She gave him an exasperated look. "This stupid skirt is caught on something. I'd just rip the damned thing if it weren't a 'priceless treasure of our American heritage.'" She clutched a wad of gossamer material and gave it an experimental tug. "Wonder if any of these ruffles would be missed."

"Let me." He squatted next to her and found the problem: a bit of chiffon wedged between the slats of a wooden crate on the floor. It was the work of only a moment for his nimble lock-pick's fingers to twist the fabric free. "There," he said, rubbing his hands together as he stood. "Barely even a wrinkle."

"Too bad."

Steele grinned. "Not your best look, admittedly."

"I _look_ like an idiot."

He gazed warmly down at her and placed a finger under her chin. "You never look other than stunning," he assured her. "Even in this … contraption. Does it fly?"

He was rewarded with her light laughter. "If it did, I would have escaped through the skylight halfway through my number." Two delicate grooves formed between her eyes, a sign Steele had learned to read as anxiety. "Give it to me straight. How godawful was I?"

"Ah. Well ... one's response to music, to any art form, is really very subjective, isn't it?" Steele hedged. He felt a prick of guilt when the furrow between her lovely eyes deepened.

"Right. That's what I thought." She hoisted up her skirt, turned on her heel and stomped off toward the dressing room. "Mr. Steele?" She tossed back over her shoulder. "The next time you have a brilliant idea … don't!"

"Laura, wait!" Steele hustled after her. "Give me a chance to explain."

She stopped and turned abruptly, causing him to crash into her. Reflexively, his hands circled her waist, steadying both of them.

"Fine. Tell me all about what a disaster I was, as if I didn't already know."

Steele was startled to see a look of genuine hurt in her chocolate eyes. He adjusted his grip slightly so his fingers met at the small of her back. "Truly, Laura, you sounded fabulous. And you're beautiful, even in that thing. It's just …" He grimaced slightly. "Doris Day?"

She rolled her eyes. "I know. Believe me, it wasn't my idea."

"Oh?"

"Helen talked me into it. She seemed to think it was the kind of image that y─ that the audience would respond to."

"It's not like you to let someone else influence your decisions, Laura."

Miss Holt sighed. "True. And now you know why. It's just that this isn't really my natural habitat. I don't know much about Big Band music. Now, if this had been an opera theatre …"

"I think you'll come to love this era, Miss Holt," Steele said, gracefully changing positions so he stood beside her, arm around her shoulders. As they began to walk together toward the dressing room, he continued, "The possibilities are endless. Billie Holiday, Lena Horne, Rosie Clooney, Ella Fitzgerald — I'm sure a review of any of those ladies' songbooks will help you find something that will suit your style."

"And what exactly is my style?"

Steele looked down at her lovely profile. "Smart. Sophisticated. And sexy as hell."

Laura smiled. "You know, I think Helen might be right about you."

"How so?"

She cast a flirty look up at him. "You _are_ a silver-tongued devil."

They arrived at the door to the dressing room. "Give me five minutes to change and I'll meet you outside," she said.

"You're not going to invite me in?" Steele pouted. "After the solid career advice I've just given you?"

"Sorry. Guess I'm still in Doris Day mode." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and slipped inside. Sighing, Steele turned to go hail a cab. He hadn't taken a step before he heard Laura's frantic voice through the door.

"Mr. Steele!"

He whirled and flung open the door. The room was a shambles.


	6. Chapter 6

"Laura!"

At the sight of the carnage of the dressing room, Steele looked frantically around for his associate. She came around the other side of the changing screen, looking agitated. "Just surveying the damage," she explained.

She stooped and picked up a pile of shimmering green fabric, the tattered remnants of one of Helen's beloved gowns. It had been slashed and splattered with some dark fluid. She nodded behind her to where several similar piles of vintage couture-turned-scrub-rag lay crumpled under the clothes rack that once held them so neatly. Laura managed a weak smile as she plucked at the fabric of the gown she was wearing. "Looks like this is the sole survivor."

Steele crossed the distance between them in two strides and roped his arm around her protectively. Despite her wry bravado, he could tell she was as stunned as he was by the scene around them. The dressing table and stool had been turned over and the make-up mirror lay shattered amid broken light bulbs. Angry, red smears crisscrossed the wall near where they stood.

"Blood?" Steele whispered.

Laura shook her head. "Rouge — specifically Max Factor #265. The magic potion that gives me that dewy, Doris Day glow."

With his free arm, Steele reached out and dragged a finger through one of the marks. "Hm. You wear it better, Miss Holt." He pulled his neatly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped off the greasy substance.

Laura disengaged herself from his embrace and began a slow circuit of the room, examining all surfaces for clues. Steele squatted next to one of the spoiled gowns. Withdrawing a pen from his inside jacket pocket, he poked at the heap of fabric speculatively. "It looks as if someone shares your opinion of the costume inventory."

"Obviously they were trying to intimidate me, make me quit the club like the other vocalists," Laura responded.

"That may be a hint worth taking."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, my God!" gasped a female voice behind them.

Steele and Laura turned to see Maurice and Helen in the doorway. Mrs. Whiteman appeared to be in shock, her mouth gaping in disbelief as she sagged against her husband.

"What the hell happened here?" Whiteman's tone was brusque.

"Someone trashed the place while I was on stage," Laura answered.

Helen's gaze made a circuit of the ruined furnishings. "Oh, Maury," she sobbed. "I can't take much more of this. Laura could have been hurt or worse."

"Exactly the point I was about to make to Miss Holt when you arrived," Steele said. "Laura, I think it's time to regroup and explore other strategies."

His partner shook her head. "I was in this dressing room for an hour getting ready to go on," she commented. "Whoever did this waited until I left. They weren't out to hurt me."

Helen walked over to the clothes rack and picked up a pale blue gown. It had been ripped at several seams and a jar of loose powder had been tossed over it.

"I feel so badly about your beautiful gowns," Laura said. "If you hadn't let me use this dressing room, all your beautiful things wouldn't have been ruined."

Helen sighed, then shrugged and dropped the garment. "They're just stuff, Laura," she said, giving Laura's arm a comforting pat. "Things aren't important. People are. I'm just glad you weren't hurt."

"So far this investigation of yours hasn't been much help," Whiteman snapped, looking at his wife's anxious eyes. "Things are getting worse. Maybe we oughta just cash in our chips and sell the place to Martin."

"Not yet, Mr. Whiteman," Laura said. "I'm sure we can figure out who's been doing this to you and make them pay for the damages. It won't replace your lost mementoes, but at least you'll be able to buy new things, and you both deserve the satisfaction of seeing justice done."

"We don't need that," Helen assured her. "We just want to make sure that nobody gets hurt."

"Believe me, Helen," Laura said in a steely tone. "The only person who's going to get hurt is the creep who did this, if we have anything to say about it. Right, Mr. Steele?"

"Hear, hear," Steele agreed, though his expression suggested he'd rather Miss Holt were slightly less willing to court danger, even for a good cause.

After Helen and Maurice went back to their responsibilities in the club, Laura ducked into the ladies room to brush her hair into a ponytail and change into the jeans and sweatshirt she'd stowed in a tote under the make-up table. Fortunately, the vandal hadn't wrought the same destruction on her bag as he had the rest of the room.

Laura and Steele spent the next hours processing the scene while waiting for the club to close so they could interview the staff. Not surprisingly, since they were all occupied with their duties in the club, nobody saw anything out of the ordinary. Steele briefed Laura on the most likely suspect — the well-dressed man lurking by the bar who had high-tailed it when Steele noticed him. When he described the man to the club's owners, the reaction was immediate.

"That sounds like Wayne Martin!" Maurice declared.

"The developer who tried to buy the club out from under you?" Laura asked.

Whiteman nodded. "He can't have had any business here … unless it was funny business."

"Strange that you didn't see him come in, Helen," Steele remarked. "Is there any other way into the club besides the front entrance?"

"There's a fire exit in the back, but that only opens from the inside," Helen said. "But this Martin fellow could have waltzed right past me and I wouldn't have recognized him. Maury handles all the business dealings for the club — I never met the man."

Laura glanced at her watch. "Well, it's almost 2:00 am. I don't think we're going to learn anything more here tonight. Might as well head home. Helen, you might want to lock this room again to preserve any evidence we might have missed."

Steele phoned for a taxi and the two detectives were soon cruising the mostly-empty streets of Los Angeles in the back of a Checker cab. Laura leaned against Steele, her head on his shoulder, dozing. He loved moments like this, just the two of them unwinding after a hard day or night's work — times that made him feel closer to her than he had ever felt to anyone. Sometimes such a realization might send him scrambling in the opposite direction. But now, listening to her soft, regular breathing and feeling her warm body against him, Steele felt only complete contentment.

Well, not _quite_ complete. Despite the fact that the Whitemans' tormentor had apparently gone out of his way NOT to encounter Laura, he didn't like the fact that whoever he was had apparently been lurking close by while Miss Holt was alone in the dressing room, waiting for her to leave. And he had assaulted Helen just days ago, so he could be violent. Steele knew better than to suggest to Laura that she needed protection … but he was determined to stick to her like white on rice until this case was solved.

The cab rolled to a stop outside Laura's warehouse loft, and Steele reluctantly nudged her awake. "Oof," she yawned, stretching. "What a night." Steele instructed the cab to wait while he walked Laura up to her apartment.

"That's not really necessary," she protested, but didn't resist further when he took her arm and led her up the stoop. Upstairs, she slid the heavy warehouse door open, to find Nero waiting on the other side, meowing indignantly.

"Uh oh. Past his dinnertime," she explained, scooping up the sleek, black feline. The cat began purring loudly. Steele could relate: He knew how delightful it felt to be in Laura's arms. Speaking of which …

"Maybe I should stay, make sure you're safe," he murmured, leaning in_ thisclose_ to her, speaking almost against her lips. It was a signature move, one that never failed to affect her. "Um … I'll be fine …" she breathed between nibbling kisses. "No … need to …" She closed her eyes and let a moaning sigh escape her as he covered her mouth and kissed her deeply, pulling her close–

"Meerooow!" Nero protested as he was squashed between their two bodies. Startled, they broke their embrace. Nero leapt from Laura's arms and stalked off, tail thrashing, in the direction of his food dish.

Laura laughed. "I'd better get out the can opener or there'll be hell to pay." She placed a palm on Steele's lapel and smiled up at him. "We'll be fine here. As you can see, Nero is a very effective guard cat."

"Uh huh," Steele scowled. "I don't suppose you've ever considered a nice hamster instead?"

"Good night, Mr. Steele." She lifted on tip-toes to kiss him quickly.

"Good night, Miss Holt."

Steele thrust his hands in his pockets and started back down the hallway to the accompaniment of the sound he hated most in the world: the grating of the sliding door closing between him and the most beautiful woman he'd ever known.


	7. Chapter 7

Though Laura wasn't due back at the Cabana Club until early afternoon, she wasn't the type to sleep in … even after working into the wee hours the previous night. After her usual 6:30 am run, she showered, got dressed, popped a piece of whole wheat bread into the toaster and left a message on the office machine informing Mildred she would be working from home this morning, and to let Mr. Steele know she'd meet him for lunch at Mortons to discuss the case.

Next she phoned the nearest Tower Records and asked them to deliver any compilations of the most famous jazz and Big Bang female vocalists they had in stock. When it came time to pick her number for this evening's performance, Laura wanted to have her own selection ready. Helen was a sweet woman, and meant well, but Laura wasn't about to have a repeat of last night's cringe-inducing debacle.

By 9:30 am Laura was comfortably settled in her favorite chair, a steaming mug of pekoe tea beside her and Nero purring contently in her lap. She had loaded the CD deck of her stereo with the selections the record store sent over, and she was soon immersed in the smooth stylings of Dinah Washington, Jo Stafford, Ella Fitzgerald, Helen Forrest and other greats. It didn't take long for Laura to decide Mr. Steele was right: There was some wonderful stuff here. Classical would always be her first love, but she could understand Steele's affinity for this genre.

Laura picked up her notebook from the coffee table and opened it to a blank page. At the top she wrote:

CASE FILE: Whiteman/Cabana Club

SUMMARY: Unknown person(s) have been perpetrating vandalism and terroristic threats over a six-month period, evidently with the object to closing down the club or forcing the Whitemans to sell.

Underneath this she jotted:

Suspect Motive

Wayne Martin Intimidation

Michael Doolittle Revenge for firing

Other? ?

Then:

Incidents

Graffiti

Broken water pipe

Missing items

Damaged equipment

Threatening phone calls

Assault on Helen Whiteman

Dressing room ransacked

Laura leaned back and studied the list, looking for a common denominator. The activity showed an escalating level of seriousness, as if the perpetrator were losing patience or perhaps running out of time. She also noted that, apart from the late-night phone calls to the vocalists and the assault on Helen Whiteman, the acts had all been directed against things, not people. And even the phone calls were an implied, rather than actual, physical threat.

As she pondered her notes, the CD changed and a song caught Laura's ear. It was a slow, bluesy number sung by Sarah Vaughn. Laura closed her eyes to take in the melody and lyrics. As the last note faded, she opened her eyes, picked up her pen and drew a line under her previous notes. Below this she added three words:

Smart. Sophisticated. Sexy.

She stared at the words a moment, then drew a neat checkmark after each one.

For perhaps the first time in his life — his life as Remington Steele, at least — the man with the mysterious past arrived early for an appointment. When Laura strolled into Mortons Diner just past noon, Steele had already claimed a booth near the back. Laura felt a little rush as his face lit up upon catching sight of her. In his typical gentlemanly fashion, he stood up as she approached, only resuming his seat after she'd slid onto the vinyl-covered bench opposite him. At a signal from Steele, a waitress appeared her elbow with a fresh pot and two mugs.

"I was a bit worried when you didn't come in to the office this morning," Steele said pouring a cup for himself and her. "But by the look of you, you must have spent the morning catching up on lost sleep. Well done. You look fresh as a daisy."

"Fresh as a daisy?" Laura smiled over the rim of her mug at his quaint phrasing.

"Positively bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," he confirmed. "I, on the other hand, have been up since the proverbial crack of dawn, going over every detail of the case."

"And?"

"And," Steele paused for dramatic effect. "I've solved it."

Laura squinted at him, her angled brows signaling her skepticism. "Really. Do tell."

Steele gave her a knowing look across the formica tabletop. "Phantom of the Paradise. Paul Williams, William Finley, Jessica Harper, Twentieth Century Fox, 1974."

"Paul Williams? The guy who writes songs for the Muppets — that Paul Williams?"

Steele nodded impatiently. "He's had a surprisingly robust if undistinguished acting career as well, Laura. But we digress."

"Go on." Laura leaned back against the seat and crossed her arms expectantly.

"A horribly disfigured musician lurks in the back corridors and dark recesses of an avant garde concert venue, seeking revenge on the demonic music promoter who ruined his life."

"That sounds just awful."

Steele shrugged his assent. "Apart from an uncredited narration by Rod Serling and the fact that it was directed by Brian DePalma, it doesn't have much to recommend it."

"Or any obvious connection to our case," Laura pointed out.

"_Au contraire_, Miss Holt. Suppose Maurice Whiteman — in a frenzy of jealousy, perhaps — tried to murder someone … let's say a member of his band. Only the man didn't die. Instead he escaped into the bowels of the Cabana Club–"

"The bowels?"

Steele glowered. "Ahem. Disappeared into the _bowels _of the club and has been creeping out unnoticed to exact his vengeance."

Laura stared at her partner a full ten seconds. "I've got to admit," she said at last, "that's one of the most colorful theories you've ever come up with."

Steele looked wounded. "I gather you don't find it plausible?"

"Putting aside the whole 'mad musician creeping around the bowels of the club' part, don't you think Maurice would have told us if he'd made that kind of enemy?"

"Not if sharing the information would put him on a fast track to Sing-Sing for attempted murder."

"Sing-Sing is in New York."

"Alcatraz, then," Steele retorted crossly. "Whatever. The point is, my theory fits all the facts of the case — and I happen to know Whiteman is the jealous type."

"How do you know that?"

"I paid a visit to Michael Doolittle, the fired bartender, yesterday afternoon. He admitted stealing from the cash register, but implied the real reason he was canned was because Maurice suspected him of making time with his girl."

"Helen?"

"Boggles the mind, doesn't it?"

Laura set down her coffee cup and considered the information. "Yeah. It couldn't be true, though, could it? I mean, Helen and the kid didn't actually …"

"Of course not. The young man was properly appalled at the very notion. But it does show Maurice has a volatile and irrational streak of jealousy when it comes to his wife."

Laura was genuinely impressed by his legwork. "Nice bit of investigating, Mr. Steele," she praised, watching with amusement as he visibly puffed up. "I'm still not buying the phantom fiend part" — Steele deflated at this — "but it could be a hint that the Cabana Club isn't the happy mom and pop operation the Whitemans would like us to believe it is."

"So what's our next move?" Steele asked, then suddenly snapped his fingers. A wicked glint appeared in his eye. "I've got it! I'll seduce Helen Whiteman, and when her enraged husband bursts in on us in _flagrante delicto_, you jump out from under the bed and take him down with one of your famous karate chops."

"Let's call that Plan B," Laura said dryly.

Steele grinned. "Good idea. Helen Whiteman is, admittedly, a handsome woman. But like our young Mr. Doolittle, I find my head more likely to be turned by a beauty of more recent vintage." He fixed her with those blue eyes and Laura felt a rush of warmth in her cheeks.

Steele downed his last sip of Sanka. "So what's Plan A?"

"You're going to track down Wayne Martin and find out what he was doing at the club last night."

"And you?"

Laura glanced at her watch and made a glum face. "I'm headed back to the Cabana Club to resume my secret identity as the Singing Siren of Malibu Beach."


	8. Chapter 8

The always efficient Mildred Krebs was able to find an address for Wayne Martin at EEE: Exceptional Entertainment Enterprises, the real estate development company of which Martin was founder and CEO. Mildred further briefed Steele that the company, as the name implied, specialized in taking over failing live-entertainment venues and converting them to comparatively low-overhead establishments like the sports bar he proposed for the Cabana Club. It was a multi-million dollar operation, its assets built on the rubble of other people's broken dreams.

Mildred offered to call the headquarters to arrange an appointment for Mr. Steele, but he'd learned from Laura that the element of surprise can be an investigator's most effective weapon. Instead, he summoned Fred with the limo and set off to confront his quarry unannounced.

EEE occupied the top several floors of one of LA's newer steel-and-glass monuments to corporate ambition. It was hard to miss the phallic symbolism of such towers, Steele reflected — each new erection designed to be bigger and thrust higher than the last. And at the top of these edifices one would almost always find a powerful man ensconced in glass-walled splendor, the better to look down on his inferiors.

Thus Steele didn't have to consult the directory in the lobby to locate Wayne Martin's executive suite; he simply stepped into the elevator and pressed the top button. Half a moment later, the stainless steel doors opened to a spacious reception area. A quick scan as he sauntered toward the receptionist's desk revealed surroundings even more sleekly modern than the chic environs of Remington Steele Investigations. The well-groomed detective was glad he'd worn his navy Italian-made suit and most sumptuous maroon tie.

The receptionist was a stunning blonde whose long, perfectly pedicured nails suggested she didn't spend much time typing memos. Catching sight of Steele, her eyes widened and she sat up straighter, showcasing her most impressive assets.

Steele was used to the reaction he engendered in women; he'd been using it to his advantage for years. But since assuming the mantle of Remington Steele, he'd acquired an even more potent cachet: celebrity.

He stopped in front of the desk and favored the blonde with _that_ smile. "Good afternoon. I'm-"

"-Remington Steele. I know," she supplied breathlessly.

"I see my reputation precedes me. I'd like to see Mr. Martin, Miss …?"

"Gloria. My name is Gloria," she said, her gaze locked on his. "Do you, um, have an appointment?"

"Not as such. But I'm sure he'll see me."

"Uh huh." She fumbled with the intercom on the desk, finally finding the right button and buzzing it.

"Yeah? What is it, Gloria?" A male voice answered from the box.

"Remington Steele to see you, Mr. Martin."

Almost immediately a black enameled door behind her opened and the man Steele had observed at the Cabana Club filled the doorway. "The great detective, Remington Steele! I'm a big, big fan," he boomed, a too-wide smile on his face. "Please come in." He stepped aside as Steele entered his inner sanctum. True to expectations, it was walled with windows on three sides, commanding a breathtaking view of the city and hills.

"Impressive," Steele conceded.

"Thanks. Have a seat." Martin gestured to an ultra-modern brushed aluminum chair opposite his massive chrome and plexiglass desk.

"I prefer to stand."

A crease appeared on the man's forehead and his smile disappeared. "Suit yourself. To what do I owe this visit, Mr. Steele?"

"It seems we share a common interest, Mr. Martin."

"Oh?"

"The Cabana Club. I'm sure you know I saw you there last night. Now, I was there for the music. I suspect you were there for something else."

A wary expression formed on Martin's face. "You suspect wrong, Mr. Steele. I happen to be a big fan of Big Band music."

"You seem to be a big fan of many things, Martin. Steam-rolling nice little old couples is apparently high on that list."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Let's not be coy. I know you tried to buy the Cabana Club from its original owner, and when that failed, put the screws on Maurice Whiteman to sell out."

Martin was beginning to look distinctively peeved. "Yeah, so what? I offered him a fair price for the place. Since when is that a crime? Seriously, Steele, what the hell is this about?"

His vehemence took Steele back a bit; if Martin was behind the mischief at the Club Cabana, he was a damned good actor. "The Whitemans have been plagued by a series of unfortunate incidents of late," Steele noted. "Does that surprise you?"

"I'd say I'm less surprised than don't give a damn – unless you're implying I'm somehow involved."

"You're saying you don't have anything to do with 'encouraging' the Whitemans to give up the club?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

"And you were at the club last night because …"

Martin smirked unpleasantly. "I told you, I like the music. I hear Big Band is making a comeback out east. Who knows? I might even keep the format when I take over. Hire a new band, of course. Something a little edgier to bring in the younger crowd."

"You seem pretty confident you'll own the place." Steele didn't like this guy. Even a little bit.

"Look, Steele. I want the club. And I'll get it – eventually. Whiteman is what, 70 years old? Working 80 hours a week? I don't have to sabotage his business … just wait until the old bird kicks off and buy it from the widow for a song."

"That's pretty cold-blooded."

The smirk again. "I'm a smart businessman, Mr. Steele."

"You're a bastard, Mr. Martin."

Steele turned on his heel and left the office.

Laura arrived at the Cabana Club in time to get herself settled in the Green Room (back to the default dressing room since Helen's special retreat was still a crime scene) before her scheduled rehearsal with the Melodiers. She'd found a new supply of make up arranged on an old chest of drawers and, hung on a peg near the door, an emerald-colored, taffeta gown. Pinned to it was a note in Helen's handwriting: "Found this in the back of my closet at home. I know you'll look STUNNING in it." To Laura's relief, the dress was actually quite lovely: calf-length, with a sweetheart neckline, cinched waist and slim, form-fitting skirt. She'd planned to wear one of her own formal dresses, but decided humoring Mrs. Whiteman would be far less painful in this than in last night's pink horror.

As Laura was examining the dress, the door to the Green Room opened. Expecting Helen Whiteman, Laura was surprised when a willowy young woman with close-cropped auburn hair stuck her head inside the door. The girl seemed equally surprised to see Laura.

"Oh, hi!" the girl said. "You must be my replacement." She strolled into the room, and extended a hand. "I'm Cassie."

"Laura." Miss Holt returned her warm smile. "You were the previous singer, I take it?"

"Yep, unless they've gone through another one since last week. I just came by to see if I left my ID bracelet here. It's not worth anything, but my boyfriend gave it to me, so you know how that is." She pulled open the top drawer of the bureau, rummaged among a collection of curlers, bobby pins and cotton balls. "Aha!" She pulled out a silver band.

"Did you work here at the club long?" Laura asked.

"As long as I could take it."

Laura nodded. "Yes, I've heard about the calls."

Cassie looked blank. "Calls …?"

"The harassing phone calls in the middle of the night. Isn't that why you and the other singers quit?"

"Who told you that?" The girl shook her head. "I don't know about anybody before me, but the only harassment I had to deal with came from the old lady."

"Helen?"

Cassie rolled her eyes. "She's a nice woman, but talk about bossy! She tried to tell me what to sing, how to dress … she even wanted me to wear a wig on stage, can you believe it?"

"I suppose she figured with all her experience-"

"Listen, I respect the fact that she was in the business 100 years ago or whatever. But I'm a professional, too. And I know a helluva lot more about what people want to listen to these days than she does."

"Did you try to explain that to her?"

"She wasn't interested in what I had to say. I even went to Mr. Whiteman, tried to get through to him that his wife's meddling was going to drive this place into the ground, but he thinks she can do no wrong." Cassie paused to fasten the ID bracelet nimbly around her slender wrist. "I guess it's kind of sweet that Mr. Whiteman is still so crazy about her after all these years," she continued, "but he's not doing himself any favors letting her run the show. I finally gave up and put in my notice."

"I'm sorry things didn't work out for you," Laura said.

"It's okay. I found a new gig in a jazz club in the Valley. It's a longer drive to work, but I can sing in my own style." She gave Laura another friendly smile. "Anyway, I've got to run. Hope you have a better time of it than I did."

After she left, Laura sat down on the padded stool in front of the dresser. The Whitemans had lied to her and Mr. Steele about why they couldn't keep female vocalists. Were all the other reported incidents a fabrication, too? And if so … why were the Whitemans trying to make it look as if someone were out to get them?

When Laura walked onto the stage to rehearse with the Melodiers a few minutes later, she found Helen already there. The former songstress was standing near the band, snapping her fingers to the song they were playing. Laura recognized the tune from the morning's crash-course on the Great American Songbook: an upbeat rendition of Kern and Fields' "A Fine Romance." As Laura got closer, she realized that Helen was singing along with the band. Even unamplified, her voice was clear and bell-like, her phrasing crisp and confident:

_A fine romance, my dear Duchess; two old fogies who need crutches …_

When the song ended, Laura clapped enthusiastically. "Helen, you are incredible," she said sincerely.

Helen looked embarrassed, but her husband looked as if his buttons might burst. "My Cookie had – _has_ – the best pipes in the business," he declared. "Ella, Dinah, Keely … they haven't got anything on my girl."

"I don't think you need me with Helen around," Laura agreed. She was shocked when Helen gave her a sharp, almost angry, look.

"I'm not interested in performing publicly again. I think I told you that, Laura."

Laura felt her cheeks redden at Helen's sharp tone. Somehow this grandmotherly woman was able to make normally self-assured Laura Holt feel very young and out of her depth. It wasn't a sensation she liked. "Of course," she answered, determined to soothe the women's ruffled feathers. "It just seems a shame that people are missing out on your talent. You can certainly sing circles around me."

Helen's expression softened. "You don't give yourself enough credit, dear. You have a beautiful voice. And I found the perfect song to showcase it. It's a sweet little number that Debbie Reynolds recorded in the early Fifties –"

"Actually, Helen, I thought I might try something like this. She handed Maurice the sheaf of music she'd picked up on the way to the club that afternoon.

Maurice looked it over and nodded. "Now THIS I like."

Helen looked over his shoulder and frowned. "I'm not sure, Maury. Laura, this doesn't really seem your style."

Laura decided it was high time she reclaimed her mojo. "You may be right, Helen," she said, "but we'll never know unless I give it a try, right? I was actually inspired to choose this song when I saw the gorgeous, sophisticated dress you picked out for me. I think it goes perfectly with the song." It wasn't true – but if it saved Laura from having to channel Debbie Reynolds, she was willing to resort to a little, while lie. The tactic worked.

"Well … it is a classic," Mrs. Whiteman conceded. "And just right for your range."

"Great!" Laura said before Helen had a chance to change her mind. She nodded to the Melodiers. "Shall we, boys?"


	9. Chapter 9

"Ten minutes, Miss Holt!"

"Thanks, Carl," Laura called through the Green Room door. She leaned over the make up table to apply a final swipe of mascara, then stood up to survey her reflection in the mirror. Not bad. Helen's green cocktail dress accented her trim figure, its padded bust and soft folds over the hips giving her subtle curves in places her athlete's lean physique didn't have.

Yes, the dress worked just fine. She also loved the shoes – strappy open-toed sandals with tiny stiletto heels. In fact, the only tiny point of dissatisfaction with her appearance was her hair. Helen had insisted on styling it, and though it was a vast improvement over last night's Bride of Frankenstein homáge, it left something to be desired in the practicality department. Helen had brushed Laura's lustrous mane smooth and ironed a long, gentle wave into a section in front. The s-curve fell gracefully over the right side of Laura's face — obscuring her field of vision. While applying her make-up, Laura had found herself repeatedly reaching to push the hair back, but Helen's generous application of Aqua Net held it firmly in place.

"Now I know how a pirate feels," Laura muttered to herself as she left the Green Room. Immediately another minor annoyance asserted itself: her tight skirt made it impossible to walk with a normal stride, and Laura was forced to mince down the hall, her hips forced into an unnatural wiggle.

A wolf whistle from behind her stopped Laura in her tracks. She looked back to see Mr. Steele leaning, hands in pockets, against the wall just the other side of the Green Room door she'd just exited.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" she asked.

"Enjoying the view, to be honest." He strolled toward her, eyeing her silhouette with obvious appreciation. "I approve."

Laura was not one of those women who dressed to impress men. Nevertheless, Steele's assessment pleased her … perhaps more than she cared to admit, even to herself. "I can live with it," she replied as he fell into step beside her. "I'm not so sure about this, though." She pursed her lips and blew upward in the direction of the hair over her eye. It didn't budge.

"I think it looks lovely, Miss Lake," Steele noted.

"Pardon?"

"Veronica Lake. A 1940s-era starlet who made some really excellent noir films: "The Blue Dahlia," "This Gun for Hire," "The Glass Key." Her chief claim to fame, though, was her peek-a-boo hairstyle. It looked just like this." He brushed the well-defined curve gently with the back of his hand. "The look became all the rage. Sadly, the Defense Department convinced her to change it after young ladies working in defense plants kept getting their copy-cat styles caught in the machinery. Lake's career never really recovered."

Laura chuckled. "Tell me, Mr. Steele – is there _anything_ about Old Hollywood you don't know?"

He glanced down at her hobbling gait. "Thee is, actually. I don't know how actresses got anywhere on time in those dresses and heels. You're about to miss your cue, Miss Holt."

"Jeez!" Laura tried to quicken her pace, but the narrow bottom of the skirt was so constricting that she could only manage an awkward, semi-hop. "Ugh!"

Steele caught sight of a tall, two-wheeled implement in an alcove and grabbed it. "This should get you where you're going."

Laura was appalled. "You've got to be kidding!"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Miss Holt," Steele said, using his pocket handkerchief to give the contraption a quick dusting. He grinned. Hop on my dolly, doll."

"This is insane," Laura protested, backing carefully onto the metal plate at its base. "I mean – eeyagh!" She squealed as she was suddenly rocked backwards into a roughly 45-degree angle. Steele clutched the handle of the cart and pushed as Laura scrambled to hang on.

"I can't actually see where we're going," Steele panted as they gained momentum, "so if you'd be so kind as make note of any obstacles ahead …"

"Oh, my God!" responded. "Do you really expect – music stands ahead! Left! Left! – me to be able – Boxes! Right! Right! – to _sing_ after this? Left! No, right! No, Left! Left! LEFT!"

By some miracle they managed to arrive alive, though the smooth soles of Steele's dress shoes skidded alarmingly as he struggled to bring the dolly in for a smooth landing. "Ta-da!" he gasped as Laura fairly tumbled off the cart and scrambled to put herself back in order.

"Thanks," she blustered. "But next time, let's take the Auburn."

Steele grinned as the orchestra struck up an intro and his Miss Holt glided on stage as elegantly as if she'd just arrived in the back of a limo. He was curious about what she'd be singing, whether she'd taken his advice to try something a little less cloying than last night's offering. He wasn't disappointed. This number was bluesy, sensuous. From his place in the wings he watched her in profile, the spotlight illuminating her lovely features. She swayed gently and began to sing in a low, silky voice. It was a Standard by J. Fred Coots' and Haven Gillespie. Steele was mesmerized.

_You go to my head like a glass of sparkling burgundy brew …_

A memory flashed through Steele's mind: He and Laura, dressed in cowls in the wine cellar of the Monastery of St. Costello. Her eager lips crushing his in a kiss that left them both breathless … More mental pictures. Laura holding a champagne flute between her delicate fingers. Dancing around his apartment with a bottle of bubbly, singing "You, the Night and the Music." Looking at him over the rim of a glass of Bordeaux, her chestnut eyes shining …

During the bridge, Laura sashayed over to Maurice Whiteman, who took her in his arms for a few graceful dance steps. Steele felt a sudden, inexplicable stab of resentment. He knew it was ridiculous to be jealous of the older man, but he'd come to think of his own arms as the only ones where Laura belonged. They'd shared many dances, their bodies moving in perfect sync as if they'd been waltzing together all their lives. Suddenly Maurice's jealousy about his Helen didn't seem quite so foolish.

Whiteman released Laura into a graceful spin that took her back to the microphone. She cast a quick look at Steele in the wings before beginning the final verse.

_You go to my head with a smile that makes my temperature rise,_

_Like a summer with a thousand Julys … You intoxicate my soul with your eyes._

_Though I'm certain that this heart of mine hasn't a ghost of a chance_

_In this crazy romance … You go to my head._

The plaintive tone of the final verse made Steele frown. It was just a song, after all, he told himself — but the sentiment seemed uncomfortably close to the fears Laura had shared in the past regarding him, and them. She was so afraid he would hurt her. And, if he forced himself to look into the deepest part of his soul … so was he.

The crowd was still clapping enthusiastically as Laura walked off stage, beaming. "Well?" she prompted him.

"Fantastic. Amazing. Unforgettable." He said all the right words, but something in his tone caused her smile to fade.

"What?"

Steele became defensive. "What do you mean, what? I said you were great. And you were."

"Never mind." Laura's tone was flat as she brushed past him.

"Laura." He caught her arm, pulled her into a passionate kiss. His right hand lost itself in the soft curtain of her hair, while the fingers of his left hand splayed across her cheek, his thumb caressing her jaw with infinite tenderness. She was tense at first, but as the kiss deepened, she relaxed against him and her arms glided upward, over his broad shoulders and around his neck.

The kiss finally ended, but they remained in a close embrace, their lips nearly touching, their gazes locked. "You really were incredible out there," he murmured.

She pulled back from him a bit and looked away. "Then why didn't you like it?" Her tone took on a slightly bitter edge, but Steele felt the hurt beneath it. "Smart, sophisticated, sexy. That's what you said you wanted."

"You picked that song to please _me_?"

"Of course not." She was back to the familiar Laura Holt: a model of control, reason, icy calm. "I just figured since you know more about this kind of music, I'd follow your lead for once. It won't happen again."

"I'm sorry, Laura. And I'm flattered you valued my advice. It's just that …" he struggled to articulate what felt wrong about the song. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "You are the most independent, most capable, strongest woman I've ever known. Not the torch song type."

"Why don't we just agree I'm not the professional singer type."

Steele smiled wanly. "Well, I wouldn't want you to give up your day job, because that would leave me rather high and dry. But with the right material, I think you'd make a damned fine living as a professional singer."

"Fine, Mr. Steele. Why don't you tell me exactly what to sing. There's still one night left in this very limited engagement."

"I wouldn't dream of placing such limitations on you," he protested. "But if I could make a suggestion, why not try something a little more … hmmm … sultry. Hot jazz. Nancy Wilson. Lena Horne." A sudden thought hit him. "Peggy Lee!" He moved his hands around her back so she was pressed close against him. "You give me fever," he crooned softly in her ear. "Fever in the morning, fever all through the night, bah-dum!" He punctuated the last notes with a little nudge of his hips against her.

"Peggy Lee, huh?" Laura smirked. "We'll see." She disengaged from his embrace. "Care to walk me back to the Green Room? If we start now, we might make it back there by the time the club closes … tomorrow night."

"We could take the dolly again."

"Thanks, I think I'll pass."

Steele shrugged. "Well, since it doesn't matter now if you get rumpled …" He bent quickly and scooped her up into her arms.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Now this is what I call traveling in style."

They were still laughing as they approached the Green Room, but Steele stopped abruptly. "What the bloody hell?"

Laura craned her head around to see what had startled him. There was something … odd … about the Green Room door, a kind of fuzziness at the bottom. "Oh, my God – smoke!" she shouted.

Steele let her down from his arms and sprinted to the door.

"Be careful, Mr. Steele!" Laura called after him.

He put his palms on the door to check for heat. "Stay there, Laura," he commanded. He pulled out his handkerchief and held it over his face. Then, leaning back as far from the door as he could, he stretched out an arm, turned the knob and slowly pushed the door inward. He jumped back as a fountain of acrid black smoke boiled through the opening. Just then the door was flung fully open, knocking Steele to the floor. Laura saw a slim form, dressed in black and wearing a ski mask, bolt out of the Green Room and down the corridor in the opposite direction.

As smoke detectors in the club began to howl, Laura knelt beside Mr. Steele. "Are you okay?" He nodded and got to his feet. They were both coughing, but already the smoke in the hallway was beginning to clear. The detectives entered the Green Room cautiously.

In one corner, a metal wastebasket was smoldering. Steele took off his jacket and covered the receptacle, while Laura grabbed a towel from the make up table and began fanning the remaining smoke. A moment later Steele retrieved his jacket and they peered into the basket. A charred roll of toilet paper lay at the bottom. Laura picked up the basket and carried it into the adjourning ladies' room, dousing it in the sink.

There was a commotion in the hallway and a man in fireman's gear entered. "Are you folks all right?" he said, pushing back his face mask.

They nodded. Steele wiped a bit of soot from his face with the back of his hand. "It seems it was just a homemade smoke bomb."

"Still, we'll need you to evacuate while we check it out," the fireman said.

"Did you happen to see somebody running out of the building," Laura asked. "About 6 feet tall, dressed in black?"

"Nope. The place is clear except for you two. The owners let us know you were still in here. You'd better check in with them. They were pretty shook up, especially the lady."

"Thanks, we'll do that." Steele threw his smoky jacket over one arm and put his other arm around Laura. "Let's get out of here."

They found the Whitemans outside amid a crowd of evacuated patrons, musicians and staff. Catching sight of Laura and Steele, Helen burst into tears and flung her arms around Laura. "I was so worried! If anything had happened to you, I couldn't have forgiven myself."

"We're just fine, Helen," Laura consoled her, "and so is the club. It was a lot of smoke, that's all. You should be able to open as usual tomorrow."

"No way. This was the last straw," Whiteman said. "I'm not putting my wife, my staff or myself through any more. Tomorrow morning I call Martin and tell him he can have the place."

"Oh, Maury, I'm so sorry it's come to this," his wife said, sniffling. "But maybe it's for the best. I just want this over, one way or another."

"I don't think so," Laura interjected. "I can't tell you how to run your business, Mr. Whiteman, but if you give in to whoever is doing this to you, they win."

"Winning isn't everything, Laura," Helen said.

"You're right. But sometimes it IS important. If you go to Martin tomorrow with cap in hand, he's going to take advantage of your fears to get control of your club at your expense. If he's behind these attacks, that's just what he's been trying to do." Laura focused her level gaze on Maurice Whiteman. "Again, I'm not trying to make you do anything you don't want to do. But I believe you're still strong enough to stand up to Martin, or whoever is doing this. And I believe Mr. Steele and I are going to solve this case."

The bandleader hesitated. Then he sighed deeply and looked down at his wife. "I'm sorry, Cookie, but Laura is right. I'll be damned if I let Martin or anyone else run me out of my club, take away everything we've worked our whole lives for. When I go out, I go out on my own terms."

"Even if it means you 'go out' in a pine box?" Helen whispered, starting to cry again. "I'm really frightened, Maury. I don't want to lose you."

"Give us just 24 hours," Laura suggested. "If we don't find out who has been harassing you, we'll give up. In that case we can put you in touch with our attorney, who will see to it that you get the best possible deal from Martin, if it comes to that."

Maurice gave his wife's shoulders a comforting squeeze. "Okay. Twenty-four hours," he said, directing his assent to Mr. Steele. "Like Cookie said, we just want this over with, one way or another."

"As do I, Mr. Whiteman," Steele agreed with a quick look at Laura. "I think we've all had just about enough of the phantom of the Cabana Club."


	10. Chapter 10

Laura perched on the marble countertop in Mr. Steele's gourmet kitchen, watching the man working his culinary magic on a couple of omelets. As they'd both had their cars at the club, they'd driven home separately once the fire department confirmed that the "fire" was confined to the toilet paper smoke bomb in the Green Room. It was still relatively early, so Steele suggested he and Laura reconnoiter at his penthouse for a late supper.

Laura stopped home just long enough to shower away the smoke odor and change into knit slacks and a soft pink sweater. When she arrived at Steele's apartment, she found him similarly dressed down – black jeans and gray sweatshirt – and the ingredients for their feast already laid out. Now, as Steele deftly managed the assembly of their meal in separate pans, they shared their respective day's work.

Steele recounted his meeting with Martin and admitted he'd left believing that the speculator was a thoroughly miserable human being, but had no involvement in the attacks against the Whitemans. However, in light of the evening's excitement, he was no longer so sure. "Martin still has the most compelling motive for wanting the Whitemans out of business," he pointed out as he sprinkled fresh, chopped mushrooms into each pan.

"True," Laura nodded, "but it seems a rather crude method for a man with Martin's resources. Plus, the person I saw running from the scene was of slighter build than your description of Martin, and he ran faster than I'd expect from a man in his fifties. My gut says it was a young guy, teens or early twenties, maybe."

"Which brings us back to Doolittle, the light-fingered lothario. He fits the description." Steele slid the omelets onto plates and handed them to Laura.

"But where's the motive?" she asked as she carried their meal into the dining room. "All this over a $7 an hour job? Pretty extreme."

Steeled strolled into the dining room, a bottle of Chablis in one hand, silverware and glasses in the other. They sat on opposite sides of the elegant table, and Laura dug into her omelet while Steele uncorked the bottle.

"I can't believe Doolittle did this," Steele said, pouring each of them a glass. "the kid was resentful, yes. But angry enough to tear up that dressing room? I don't think so. And I know he wouldn't hurt Helen. He seemed genuinely fond of her. Pepper?"

"Police Woman. Angie Dickinson, Earl Holliman, mid-1970s, NBC!" Laura declared triumphantly.

"Come again?"

"You just called me Pepper … Angie Dickinson's character's name in Police Woman? I loved that show — it was one of the things that inspired me to get into investigative work."

"Ah. Sorry, I don't watch much television. Actually, I was just asking you to hand me the pepper mill." He reached to pick up a small grinder.

Laura felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her. She should know better than to try to play his game. She always ended up looking like a fool.

"So that leaves us with two good suspects who didn't do it," Steele continued, thankfully obvious to Laura's mortification. "Not very encouraging, especially with just" — he glanced at his Rolex — "19½ hours to solve the case."

"Mmm hmmm," Laura agreed, chewing a bite of her omelet thoughtfully. "And here's a new wrinkle: I ran into my predecessor at the club today. Turns out she wasn't scared off by any threatening phone calls. She was pushed out by Helen's overbearing attitude."

"That sweet old lady?"

"Sweet, yes. But she can be a force to be reckoned with. I'm proof of that."

"You?"

Laura studied her plate, pushing bits of egg around with her fork. "The last two days, I've let Helen push me into being someone I'm not."

"In what way?"

Looking up, Laura offered him an arch look. "Um, Doris Day? Or have you suppressed that painful memory?"

Steele snorted dismissively. "A questionable choice of material. That hardly makes her a Svengali, Laura. Or you her malleable protégé."

"No, but there were other things, too." She swirled her wine glass between two delicate fingers, staring into the pale liquid as if peering into a crystal ball. "She made me question everything about myself, from my choice of profession to how I relate to–" She stopped abruptly and took a gulp of wine.

"To …?" Steele prompted.

"To, you know, _people_." She sighed. "I'm competitive, and I know I can come off as brusque sometimes, put people off. And I do make my career a priority. It's important to me, and I'm proud of the work we do."

"As you should be."

"But Helen made me wonder if being the way I am has cost me the chance for other things. Things that are equally … desirable."

"Such as?"

Laura looked away again, not ready to go there. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me if Helen Whiteman or anybody else has you doubting what an amazing woman you are," Steele said a little fiercely. He reached across the table and covered her hand with his own. "You are the most forthright, determined, honest person I've ever known. You've taught me about integrity and tenacity and doing what you believe is right, no matter what the consequences." He paused and took a deep breath as if gathering strength. "You've made me a better man, Laura."

Miss Holt looked back at him, saw the tenderness in his blue eyes. "And you've made me see there might be more than one way to approach a situation. And that occasionally — just occasionally, mind you — I might be wrong."

Steele grinned. "I can't think of a single occasion."

"You've also taught me more about old movies than anyone needs to know," she teased him back.

Steele clutched at his chest with his free hand. "You wound me."

She laughed, then suddenly became serious. "I don't mean to, you know. Wound you. Make you feel I don't value our … partnership. That I don't need you."

"Laura …"

And then it was too much, this moment. Too intense. Laura stood up and picked up her plate. "It's getting late. I'll help you clean up, then I'd better be on my way."

"Really? I was hoping we could finish this by the fire," Steele protested, lifting the wine bottle to top off her glass.

She covered the rim with her hand. "No more for me, or I won't be fit to drive home."

"My thoughts exactly."

She rolled her eyes, glad to be back on familiar ground. "Sorry, Casanova. Big day tomorrow for both of us." She headed toward the kitchen with her plate, but he waved her back. "Leave them. I'll take care of them in the morning. It's getting late, and if you really are determined to go home tonight –"

"I'm the most determined woman you've ever known, remember?"

"I figured I'd live to regret that remark. You know I don't like you driving back to that part of town alone after dark. I'll follow you in the Auburn."

"Don't you dare!" She laid a hand on his cheek. "I do appreciate your concern. But you know I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

Steele looked resigned. They'd been through this before. "Call me when you get home."

"I always do." She reached her arms around his neck and kissed him — a quick peck first, followed by a delicious, lingering smooch that had her reconsidering her decision to go home. "Thanks for the omelet. It was fabulous," she murmured against his lips. "Of all your many talents, I believe cooking may just be your greatest."

"Really?" Steele's lips captured hers and kept them occupied a full minute.

"Well," she said a little breathlessly when they finally parted. "Maybe your _second_ greatest."


	11. Chapter 11

Laura had always worked best under pressure. That was a good thing, because the heat was definitely on with the Whiteman case. After she'd left Mr. Steele the night before, she'd lain awake most of the night reviewing every facet of the case. She felt the solution was close, needing perhaps one more piece of the puzzle to reveal the entire picture.

She arrived early for rehearsal that afternoon, hoping to speak privately with a few of the Melodiers. Despite the string of incidents plaguing the cub, the band seemed unconcerned — curious, since their own jobs were at stake if the club closed. Perhaps after nearly half a century playing together they'd seen it all and couldn't be fazed. Or maybe they trusted their leader to take care of them.

As Laura approached the stage, her carefully selected music in hand, she was surprised to see a couple of band members huddled in the wings. Their voices were low, but she could tell by their expressions that they were arguing. They hadn't seen her approach, so she melted into the shadows of the side curtains and crept closer.

"You better be right, Saul," a fellow she recognized as a member of the trombone section was saying. "I can't wait any longer. I've got my future to think about."

"I'm telling you, Joey, it will all be over after tonight," Saul placated. "One way or another."

"You sure?"

"I got it straight from the boss."

"Okay. But if you're wrong, I'm taking matters into my own hands. Tomorrow morning. "

"Yeah, yeah."

The pair moved off together toward the bandstand. The exchange was cryptic, but Laura was beginning to suspect she knew what was going to happen tonight … She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes before rehearsal. Enough time to make a phone call to Mr. Steele.

Steele had a hunch that Michael Doolittle wouldn't be glad to see him again, so he didn't bother buzzing the man's apartment. Instead he waited near the door until a middle-aged woman pushed the door open from inside. She held a huge basket of laundry in her arms, and Steele helpfully held the door open for her to exit. "Machine out of order again?" he asked casually, hoping to sound like a local.

"Third time this week," she grunted as she passed him. "And for this we pay $250 a month?"

"Highway robbery," Steele agreed, nipping inside the door as the woman trundled off down the sidewalk.

As expected, there was no answer to Steele's knock on the door of apartment 314C, so he fished into his wallet for the platinum credit card that was useful for more than funding his upscale lifestyle. Sliding it between the door and jamb while wiggling the doorknob, Steele was soon rewarded with the click of the lock releasing. He opened the door quietly and scanned the empty room before stepping inside.

A beat-up old suitcase was laid open on the futon, rumpled clothes and toiletries spilling out. Steele walked over to it at the same time as Doolittle came out of the bathroom, a toiletry bag in hand. He stopped short when he saw the detective. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?" he demanded.

Steele ignored both questions. Instead, he peered into the tumble of debris in the suitcase. "Going somewhere, Michael?"

"I've got nothing to say to you, and it's none of your business where I'm going," he blustered. He was white as a sheet. "Get the hell out."

"Now, Michael. That's no way to speak to your elders. Especially when I'm here to help you." This was the kind of semi-tough guy act Steele reveled in almost as much as his ultra-smooth James Bond routine. "It seems you've strayed from the straight and narrow again, Mr. Doolittle. Causing trouble to such nice old people like the Whitemans." He shook his head sadly.

"I haven't done anything to the Whitemans," Doolittle declared emphatically.

"Sorry, kid. I happen to know it was you who planted the smoke bomb in the Green Room of the Cabana Club last night. You were recognized."

"That's not possible!" Doolittle exclaimed — then, realizing he'd implicated himself, he added, "because I wasn't there."

"You _were _there, Michael. You left behind evidence, and it seems you also took some with you." He gingerly removed a black turtleneck sweater from the suitcase and held it at arm's length. "Either you've got a serious nicotine habit or you've been near a smoky fire recently," he said, wrinkling his nose. He dropped the shirt back into the suitcase and fixed Doolittle with a knowing look. "I'll let you in on something, Mikey. They're doing remarkable things with technology these days. Did you know they can even match particles of ash — say, from the remains of that charred toilet paper roll — to the residue smoke leaves in, say, articles of clothing?" Steele had no idea if this was remotely possible, but it sounded good.

Doolittle blanched an even greener white. "I can't believe this!" he stammered. "Please don't call the cops, Mr. Steele. I wouldn't hurt anybody, honest. It wasn't supposed to go down this way."

"Relax, Michael. I said I was here to help you, remember?" Steele put a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Now, why don't you tell me exactly how it was _supposed_ to go down?"

Hours later, Steele was in his assigned place at the bar when Laura strolled into the club. Steele drew in a long breath. Now THIS was his Laura. Her hair was loose and fell over her shoulders in soft, gleaming waves that made his palms itch to caress them. She was wearing a dress of her own: a midnight blue sheath spangled with tiny flecks of silver glitter that caught the muted light from the table lamps and made her look like she was covered with stars. There was a deep slit up the right side of the skirt, revealing a generous expanse of long, toned leg. The top of the dress covered just one shoulder, leaving the other bare. If he were only close enough, Steele knew he'd see the sprinkle of freckles there — the proud badge of this sunny California girl's love of the outdoors. He had a secret fantasy of kissing every one of those beauty marks individually. It would take a while, but he figured he was up to the job. Nice work if you could get it.

As if this vision weren't debilitating enough, Laura caught sight of him at that moment and smiled from across the room. Steele felt a familiar thud in his chest that tended to coincide with her warm brown eyes and dazzling smile directed at him. He admired her smooth, confident stride as she approached. She moved with the natural grace of the dancer she was. Arriving at his elbow, she lifted her chin to accept his quick kiss. "You look …" He let out the breath he'd been holding. "Unbelievable."

He saw her flush with pleasure at the compliment, and it pleased him to know he'd pleased her. He'd come to understand that, astonishingly, Laura Holt was unaware of her exquisite beauty, the devastating impact the combination of her fresh, sun-kissed complexion and fine features made.

"Well?" She looked at him expectantly.

"You were right. I can't believe it, but you were right."

"I've asked Maurice and Helen to meet with us at Helen's dressing room when the band breaks after my number," Laura said. "We can go over the facts then."

"It's going to be hard on them," Steele commented.

"I know." Laura frowned. "Sometimes being a detective is less rewarding than others."

The band struck up a new song, a lyrical, flowing tune with strings and muted horns predominant. The tune was vaguely familiar, Steele thought, but he couldn't place it.

"That's my intro," Laura said. "Back on the clock."

"More Doris Day, Miss Holt?" Steele asked with a grimace.

She gave him an enigmatic smile. "A slightly hotter blonde this time." She reached up and pinched his chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Steele."

As she hurried away toward the stage, it occurred to Steele that, while Laura Holt was gorgeous from any angle, this particular viewpoint had a particular appeal, and the advantage of letting him –ahem- _admire _her without her knowing.

Maurice Whiteman offered Laura his hand to help her onto the stage. In the spotlight, her gown sparkled and her beautiful chestnut hair shone. She looked every inch the star she always was in his eyes. Planting herself squarely in front of the microphone, Laura looked out at the audience, her gaze finding and locking on Steele's just as the gentle intro suddenly transformed into a sassy jazz riff.

"What a dog!" Laura exclaimed. Steele raised his brows in surprise … which melted instantly into a broad grin as he recognized the first notes of the song:

_He's a tramp, but they love him; breaks a new heart every day …"_

Lady and the Tramp, Walt Disney Pictures, 1955. Voices of Barbara Luddy, Larry Roberts … and the incomparable Peggy Lee. "Well played, Miss Holt," Steele murmured admiringly. Trust his Laura to find a way to take his advice and one up him with it. It was a familiar tango he'd learned to savor almost as much as the actual moments they shared on a dance floor in one another's arms.

_If he's a tramp, he's a good one __—__ and I wish that I could travel his way._

The end of the song was Steele's cue to make tracks backstage to meet Laura and the Whitemans at the ruined dressing room. He usually loved the Big Reveal, when he — well, more often Laura — laid out the facts of the case and fingered the culprit. This time it only made him sad.


	12. Chapter 12

Helen and Maurice Whiteman, Laura Holt and Remington Steele assembled outside the dressing room door moments later. Helen unlocked the door and they stepped in. The room was as they'd left it two nights before — a mess.

"I'm sorry to bring you back here. I know it must be painful for you, Helen," Laura said, "but we felt we should share our findings with you in private, and this seemed the most private place."

"It's all right, my dear," Helen reassured her. "As I said, it's just stuff."

"I've only got 20 minutes before the next set, Steele," Maurice barked. "Did you figure out who's doing this to us or not?"

"Now, Maury, don't be cross," Helen protested. "It's all right if you didn't solve the case. We know you tried your best."

"Actually, we have solved the case," Laura answered.

The Whitemans looked stunned. "You know who's been trying to put us out of business?" Maurice asked.

Steele nodded. "It was the ex-bartender, Michael Doolittle. He was seen running from the Green Room the night of the fire, and we found his fingerprints all over the scenes of the other incidents. He set the smoke bomb in the Green Room, trashed this place and caused all the other damage."

"I don't believe it!" Helen exclaimed.

"I do," Maurice snarled. "I always knew that kid was no good. The way he looked at you, Cookie …"

"Nonsense, Maury. You know perfectly well that nice young man wasn't interested in me. And I'm sure he isn't responsible for our troubles, either."

"Well, that will be for the courts to decide," Laura said. "There's a squad car on the way to his apartment right now to pick him up. Arson is serious business; he'll be put away for several years if convicted."

"No!" Helen looked as if she might collapse. "You have to call off the police. That young fellow can't go to prison because of me."

"What are you talking about, Cookie?"

Laura moved to Helen's side, touching her gently on the arm as the older woman began to weep softly.

"I'm sorry, Helen," Laura said. "We know you didn't mean any harm."

"Somebody better tell me what the hell is going on," Maurice growled. "What's my wife got to do with this?"

"I'm afraid Mrs. Whiteman is behind the incidents here at the Cabana," Steele explained. "Michael Doolittle did most of the damage, but she put him up to it."

"That's ridiculous!"

"No, Maury. It's true," Helen sniffled. "I'm so sorry." She looked at Steele and Laura. "How did you know?"

"All the incidents were relatively minor, just enough to disrupt business, perhaps make keeping the club open more trouble than it was worth," Laura said. "The only physical threats were the attack on you, Helen, and the threatening calls to the other vocalists. But you're the only one who was present when the perpetrator supposedly knocked you down. And the phone calls to the singers never happened either, did they?"

"What you mean, they never happened? All the girls quit because they were scared." Confusion warred with anger on Maurice's face.

"No, they quit because Helen made things unpleasant for them," Laura said. "She's in charge of the business side of the club, including personnel. She told you the girls quit because of threatening phone calls, and you believed her."

"I thought you said Doolittle was behind this," Maurice said, his voice quieter.

"You fired Doolittle because you were jealous of his relationship with your wife," Steele said. "When money went missing from the bar till, you were happy to assume he was responsible. But he wasn't."

"Helen and Michael did have a close relationship, but not the kind you thought," Laura picked up the story. "You're very fond of him, aren't you Helen?"

"He's such a nice young man," Helen said between sobs. "Reminded me of our David when he was that age. So sweet, and ambitious, too. Trying to work his way through college."

"You were helping him with that, weren't you Helen?"

She shrugged. "Just a little bit now and then. Not money from the club or our savings. Just a little pin money I'd been keeping for emergencies. He didn't want to take it, but I insisted. A young man needs a little cash to take his girl out once in a while."

"It was you who was taking money out of the register, to make it look like the club wasn't profitable. But Maurice was suspicious of Doolittle, so he made a point of counting the money in the cash drawer. When some was missing, he accused Michael — and Michael took the fall, because of his fondness for you, Helen." Laura's tone was gentle. "That's why he's been helping you all along, ever since Maurice bought the club. Isn't that right?"

Helen sobbed harder.

"And Wayne Martin was here the other night because you invited him," Laura continued. "You wanted to make sure he was still interested in buying the club, and perhaps you wanted to convince him to see it could succeed as a Big Band club under his management."

"How did you figure it out?" Helen managed to whisper.

"Last night, the fire department showed up at the club at almost the same time as the smoke alarms went off. Clearly they'd been called before the smoke bomb was lit — just in case something went wrong, correct? You didn't want there to be any chance anyone could get hurt."

Helen nodded.

"I couldn't figure out how the person we saw dressed in black could have gotten out of the club without the fire department or any of the people standing around outside noticing," Laura added. "Then I realized he must have concealed himself somewhere in the bowels of the club." She gave Steele a look, and his eyes sparkled back at her. "You unlocked this room for Michael, both the night he trashed it and last night, when he came in here to hide."

"I don't get it." It was Maurice, looking shell-shocked. "This can't be true. Right, Cookie? Tell me this is all a mistake. Or that Doolittle made you do it, or Martin."

"I'm so sorry, Maury. I never wanted to hurt anybody … you most of all."

"Just tell me why, Helen." Maurice's tone was surprisingly mild.

"You've worked so hard all your life to give me and our kids a good life," she sniffed. "Forty-two years here, and 10 more on the road before that. I thought when Nicky decided to close the club, you'd finally retire. Enjoy life a little. We could spend our golden years traveling, seeing the grandkids more than twice a year. Just being together." Tears streamed down her face. "I worry. You're not a kid any more, Maury. Still strong, sure. But leading the band and trying to keep the club running? That's a big bite to chew even for a young buck. What would I do if something happened to you? I couldn't stand it."

"You couldn't just tell me this is how you felt?" Maurice asked.

"You are a proud man, my darling," she answered. "You'd be hurt if I suggested it was too much for you." She smiled at him through her tears. "And you know I always let you make the decisions for us." Steele and Laura exchanged a glance. "I thought maybe if the club was too much trouble you'd decided to give it up. But instead you hired Mr. Steele and Miss Holt. I didn't know what to do. I guess I felt a little desperate."

Maurice put his arms around his wife. "Aw, Cookie. I never want you to be unhappy. I'd close the club tonight if it weren't for the boys in the band. How am I going to break it to them that the Melodiers are going the way of the dinosaurs?"

"I don't think that will be a problem," Laura commented. "Right, Helen?"

"Yes. Truth is, Maury, the boys were looking forward to retirement as much as I was. They stayed on out of loyalty to you, and because I promised them it would only be short term. How did you know, Laura?"

"I heard a couple of them talking this afternoon. They said the boss had promised tonight everything would be settled."

Maurice chuckled. "And you'd figured out who's the real boss around here." He gave his wife a tender kiss on the cheek. "Well, Cookie, looks like this is our swan song."

"I hate to see you give up your dream, Maury," Helen said. "Maybe we could keep things going a while longer, hire some help …"

"My dream is right here," he answered, gazing into her eyes. "It's like you say: things are just things. People are what's important. There's more to life than working, even if you love the work you do. And I have loved my job. But it doesn't compare to how much I love you, Cookie." He placed a lined palm on her cheek and kissed her tenderly. "Come on. Let's go out on a high note."

Laura and Mr. Steele found a small table near the dance floor as the Melodiers prepared to play their last set. Whiteman was in quiet conversation with his band, sharing his decision to close the club. Their relieved faces confirmed that this was welcome news for all of them.

"That turned out better than I expected," Steele commented over a glass of champagne.

"Me, too," Laura agreed. "It's a strange way to manage a relationship — Helen pretending Maury is in charge, while she's really pulling all the strings … and he's fully aware of it, but pretends he doesn't know."

"A smart man knows that a smart woman knows more than a smart man knows," Steele said.

"What movie is that from?"

He smiled. "The still-in-development script for my own bio-pic, Miss Holt. It's the principle upon which I've lived my life for some time now."

Maurice Whiteman stepped to the microphone. "Before we begin our last set, I have an announcement to make. This is the last time Maurice Whiteman and the Melodiers will perform on the stage of the Cabana Club." There was a ripple of "Aws" from the audience. "It's been an honor and a privilege to entertain you for so many years, but it's time to move on … to spend some quality time with the most beautiful girl in the world." He glanced toward the wings. "And as a special gift to all of you, I'd like to ask that girl to sing with the band one last time."

Helen Mayfair Whiteman walked on stage to thunderous applause. She was glowing and looked years younger … as if the hands of time had turned back for this final, extraordinary moment.

The band struck up Herman Hupfeld's best-known song. Helen looked lovingly at her husband as she stepped to the microphone and began to sing.

_You must remember this: A kiss is still a kiss. A sigh is just a sigh …_

"Now THAT'S how it's done," Laura whispered.

As couples drifted onto the dance floor, Steele stood and offered Laura his hand. "Care to, Miss Holt?"

They danced close, swaying together while looking into one another's eyes. "I suppose Helen is right," Laura breathed.

"Oh?" He kissed her lightly.

"No matter what the time or place, everybody really is looking for the same thing."

Steele pulled her even a bit closer and whispered in her ear. "Let's hope everybody finds the thing they're looking for." He drew back and looked down into her lovely face. "Here's looking at you, kid." As they kissed, the band played on.

_The world will always welcome lovers as time goes by._

END

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